RELEASE
Chief Justice Pansarta sat back in his capacious chair. His stout legs
were crossed comfortably. His somewhat benign personality was never
more emphasized than as he sat there enjoying his first cigar of the
day. His meditative gaze was on the great shaft of sunlight pouring in
through the window of the room appointed for his private use at the
Supreme Court of Calford.
Superintendent Croisette was interestedly observing him across the
polished table intervening between them.
On either hand of the Judge the two leading counsels in the trial
which had occupied the court on the previous day, were waiting for the
decision which was to result from the lengthy legal discussion upon
which they had engaged. John Danson sat facing the prosecuting counsel
queerly confident. Eustace Mellor was smoking a cigarette and avoiding
the gaze of his friendly opponent.
Croisette had heard all the argument of the learned counsel without
very great interest. In truth he felt their little legal skirmish was
hardly important. Judge Pansarta, he knew, had long since taken his
decision. Probably it had been taken over night. His only concern was
as to what that decision might be.
But the learned Judge seemed to be in no great hurry. Snow had fallen
in the night. But the morning was soft and the snow melting. It was the
first real sign that winter was to reach its termination, however long
it might be, however bitter. And the Judge seemed to be enjoying the
pleasant augury of the brilliant sun.
At last he reluctantly turned to the men gathered at the table. His
smile was cordial as he glanced from the defence to the prosecution.
But it was no more. It was the smile of the man who is complete master
of the situation and is quite aware of the fact.
Croisette found himself smiling responsively. The counsels had worked
very hard to impress their viewpoints.
“Thank you, gentlemen, very much,” Pansarta said, in the genuine
fashion of the amiably disposed. “It has all been most enlightening.
Now since your discussion has closed I will, with your permission,
give you my final interpretation of the position. It is given after
due consideration of all the points you have raised, and the evidence,
which yesterday’s fiasco set before the Court. Let me say at once, that
in all my experience of the law I have never been confronted with a
case quite like this murder of Constable Sinclair.”
Croisette sat back in his chair. For a few moments, while the Judge
reached out and very precisely dropped the remains of his cigar into
an ash tray, his interest relaxed, and his thought drifted back to the
closing scene before the adjournment of the court the day before.
It was curious how out of all the stirring moments of the day, one
incident, alone, which had no apparent relation to the case, stood out
above all others in his mind. It was the momentary vision of one of the
spectators leaving the court, when feeling and interest were at their
highest pitch.
But so it was. And in that moment his quick mind had been impressed
with the significance of the incident. He was glad that Fyles had been
present to act. He was thinking of the man, Pideau Estevan, now, as the
Judge paused in his statement. For it was he who had so hastily left
the court at the moment of the crisis that had caused the adjournment
of the trial.
The Judge continued in even, dispassionate tones.
“There is no need for me to go over the evidence for you, gentlemen,”
he said. “We had the evidence of a number of people which amounted
to little or nothing. It simply gave us an insight into the lives of
this man, the Wolf, and the girl, Annette. It is the sort of evidence
I dislike in court, as it rarely sheds any real light upon the case
under consideration, and often helps to prejudice it. It is the sort of
evidence to be well sorted and sifted by the police before the case
comes on for trial.”
The pleasant eyes flashed into the police officer’s and carried their
smile with them.
“I am a little at a loss to understand, however,” he went on, “just why
the prosecution did not call the prisoner’s partner, the man, Pideau
Estevan. He is the half-breed father of the girl Annette. He must have
been intimately connected with the case, and his evidence might have
proved valuable.”
Croisette sat up.
“The police were of opinion, sir, that Pideau Estevan would have been
an unsatisfactory witness for the prosecution. You see he is, as you
say, the father of the girl. He is also the prisoner’s partner. The
situation in which he would have been placed would have been extremely
awkward. And it would probably have made his evidence unreliable.”
Pansarta inclined his head.
“There may be a good deal in what you say. But---- Well, it is of no
consequence now, in any case. The charge against the man, the Wolf,
must be dismissed. He must be released. The girl, too, must go her way.
It is the only possible course for the Court to take.”
It was interesting. Croisette had foreseen the decision. While his
knowledge of the law was not comparable with that of the other man at
the table, his instinct was unerring. He watched the two counsels as
the judge gave his decision. A half smile played about the grim lips of
John Danson. But the other gave no sign. He sat with his eyes lowered
to the sheet of paper on the table before him.
The Judge pursued his subject in the detached fashion of a mind
absorbed in his problem.
“It is a case where we have to rule ourselves entirely by the laws of
evidence. That which we believe ourselves, that of which any of us
may be morally certain, must not be allowed to influence. Constable
Sinclair has been undoubtedly murdered. He was murdered by a shot fired
from a gun belonging to this Wolf. The bullet has been recovered and
proves to be identical with the cartridges found in the sleeping room
of the Wolf. We know that these people, both of them, are intimately
interested in the death of the murdered man. And the logic of the case
points to one of them as the murderer. That is all so. But in dealing
with the case we are brought up against a position, which, under the
laws of evidence, prevents us pursuing the trial to its logical end.”
Pansarta cleared his throat, and something of his absorption passed. He
glanced at the faces about the table.
“What is it?” he went on quickly. “The man refuses to plead. He remains
dumb, mute. He will utter no word to help in his defence. The only
evidence which the prosecution can bring against him is the evidence
of the girl, Annette. True, it is direct evidence, and very complete,
but its only other support is circumstantial. When our friend Danson
gets after this girl and drives her into a corner, and appeals to her
womanhood, what is the result? She breaks down. She flings her whole
story to the winds of heaven and confesses herself to having committed
the crime. Nor is it a bald confession. She gives it in detail and
reveals her reasons. When this happens the man breaks his silence.
Instantly he denies her confession. And then proceeds to claim for
himself the very crime the prosecution has striven to bring home
to him. And his story of the murder is no less convincing than the
woman’s.”
“Well, gentlemen, we cannot go into a long dissertation on the laws
of evidence now. You know them as well as I do. We all know they will
not admit of two people, separately and alone, killing the same man,
at the same time, with the same gun, and the same shot. That is clear.
Furthermore they will not permit of a man being hanged for a crime
confessed to by another without that confession is clearly proved
untrue, even though he can make his own confession appear true. In
short, had these two wild people acted in collusion they could have
designed no better way of confounding justice.”
The calmly smiling face was turned again to the brilliant sunbeam, and
the thought behind the Judge’s pleasant eyes was very busy.
“Let us take the girl Annette,” he continued. “If her confession were
true, which I am convinced it is not, then her evidence against the man
falls to the ground as a mass of perjury. If her evidence is true, then
her confession is not. Then consider the man. He is silent. He neither
denies guilt nor admits it. Not a word passes his lips. He not only
submits to the woman’s accusations, but actually seems to welcome them.
He even goes to the length of warning her against his own counsel,
the counsel for his defence. In fact, he tacitly welcomes the hanging
confronting him. Why?”
“Then we come to the crux of the whole position. It is at the moment
when this perverted woman he clearly loves better than his life,
incriminates herself by confession. He promptly breaks through his
barrier of silence and hurls himself to save her, by confessing, in a
clear convincing manner, to his own perpetration of the crime.”
Pansarta drew a deep sigh and the smile left his eyes to be replaced by
his slight frown of authority.
“We need to go no further. The details of evidence no longer matter.
They can be dismissed. Their value does not arise now. The story lying
back of those two opposing confessions is no concern of the Court at
this moment. In other circumstances it may very deeply concern the
Court. This morning I shall direct the jury to find the prisoner ‘not
guilty.’ And, Superintendent Croisette,” he added, smiling over at the
officer, “it will be for your police to begin again.”
He ceased speaking. And as he did so the counsel for the prosecution
inclined his head in reluctant approval. John Danson was frankly
pleased. But the police officer found nothing in the learned Judge’s
statement of the case to drag him from his preoccupation.
There came a sharp tap at the door communicating with the court. It
was a begowned official to announce that all was in readiness for the
opening of the court.
The Judge waved him away.
“Now, gentlemen,” he continued, as the door closed on the banished man,
“having given you my ruling I want to pass from reality to the realms
of conjecture. This case intrigues me deeply. I warned you that it
is for Croisette’s police to begin again. I meant that. I meant that
literally because I am convinced that neither the prisoner nor the
woman, Annette, had anything to do with the killing of Sinclair. I am
breaking a long-established rule of my life in saying that. But I will
go farther. I am no less convinced that each of them honestly believes
that the other committed the crime. And, furthermore, each believes
they have irrefutable evidence of the other’s guilt.”
The Judge rose from his chair and passed over to his wig and robes laid
across the back of a chair.
“I think,” he proceeded, adjusting his robes on his ample person,
“that this man they call the Wolf is an unusual character. He is a
disreputable bootlegger. No doubt he is a ruffian. I am quite sure
he would readily have claimed the privilege of shooting this man,
Sinclair. But he is nevertheless a man who claims my respect for other
virtues. As for the girl, Annette,” he went on, arranging his heavy
wig before a mirror, “she seems to be a perverted, wayward, half-breed
wench, without moral scruple. She’s headlong, wild, and steeped in the
savagery of her Indian forbears. But she’s a woman. And she is quite
beautiful. Furthermore, I rather think she is a woman who has found
in the ashes of the conflagration she set going in Buffalo Coulee all
that to which every woman has a right, and which, sooner or later, in
her life comes her way. So, gentlemen,” he added, facing the men at
the table, an imposing figure in his resplendent robes, and with a
smile that seemed to permeate his whole being, “if you will favor me by
preceding me into the court, I will do my best to persuade everybody
that a scallawag bootlegger and potential killer, can still be a brave
and gallant man.”