JEDGE CRUTCHFIELD'S CO'T
Dar's a pow'ful rassle 'twix de Good en de Bad,
En de Bad's got de all-under holt;
En w'en de wuss come, she come i'on-clad,
En you hatter holt yo' bref fer de jolt.
--UNCLE REMUS.
My companion and I had not traveled far into the South before we
discovered that our comfort was likely to be considerably enhanced if,
in hotels, we singled out an intelligent bell boy and, as far as
possible, let this one boy serve us. Our mainstay in the Jefferson Hotel
was Charles Jackson, No. 144, or, when Charles was "off," his "side
partner," whom we knew as Bob.
Having one day noticed a negro in convict's stripes, but without a
guard, raking up leaves in Capitol Square, I asked Charles about the
matter.
"Do they let the convicts go around unguarded?" I inquired.
"They 's some of 'em can," said he. "Those is trustees."
This talk of "trustees" led to other things and finally to a strong
recommendation, by Charles, of the Richmond Police Court, as a place of
entertainment.
"Is it interesting?" I asked.
"Inter-_resting_? Yes, _suh_! Judge Crutchfield he suttinly _is_. He
done chahge me twenty-six dollahs and fo'ty cents. My brothah, he got in
fight down street, heah. Some niggers set on him. I went to he'p him an'
p'leeceman got me. He say I was resistin' p'leece. I ain't resisted no
p'leece! No, _suh_! Not _me_! But Judge Crutchfield, you can't tell him
nothin'. 'Tain't no use to have a lawyer, nuther. Judge Crutchfield
don't want no lawyers in his co't. Like 's not he cha'ge you _mo'_ fo'
_havin'_ lawyer. Then you got pay lawyer, too.
"Friend mine name Billy. One night Billy he wake up and heah some one
come pushin' in his house. He hollah: 'Who thar?'
"Othah nigger he kep' pushin' on in. He say: 'This Gawge.'
"Billy, he say: 'Git on out heah, niggah! Ain't no Gawge live heah!'
"Othah niggah, he say: 'Don't make no diff'unce Gawge live heah o' not.
He sure comin' right in! Ain't nobody heah kin stop ol' Gawge! He eat
'em alive, Gawge do! He de boss of Jackson Ward. Bettah say yo' prayehs,
niggah, fo' yo' time--has--come!'
"Billy he don't want hit nobody, but this-heah Gawge he drunk, an' Billy
_have_ t' hit 'im. Well, suh, what you think this Gawge done? He go have
Billy 'rested. _Yes_, suh! But you can't tell Judge Crutchfield nothin'.
Next mo'nin' in p'leece co't he say to Billy: 'I fine you twenty-five
dollahs, fo' hittin' this old gray-haihed man.' Yes, _suh_! 'at 's a way
Judge Crutchfield is. Can't tell _him_ nothin'. He jes' set up theh on
de bench, an' he chaw tobacco, an' he heah de cases, an' he spit, an'
evvy time he spit he spit a fine. Yes, _suh_! He spit like dis: 'Pfst!
Five dollahs!'--'Pfst! Ten dollahs!'--'Pfst! Fifteen dollahs!'--just how
he feel. He suttinly is some judge, 'at man."
Encouraged by this account of police court justice as meted out to the
Richmond negro, my companion and I did visit Justice Crutchfield's
court.
The room in the basement of the City Hall was crowded. All the benches
were occupied and many persons, white and black, were standing up. Among
the members of the audience--for the performance is more like a
vaudeville show with the judge as headliner than like a serious
tribunal--I noticed several actors and actresses from a company which
was playing in Richmond at the time--these doubtless drawn to the place
by the fact that Walter C. Kelly, billed in vaudeville as "The Virginia
Judge," is commonly reported to have taken Judge Crutchfield as a model
for his exceedingly amusing monologue. Mr. Kelly himself has, however,
told me that his inspiration came from hearing the late Judge J.D.G.
Brown, of Newport News, hold court.
At the back of the room, in what appeared to be a sort of steel cage,
were assembled the prisoners, all of them, on this occasion, negroes;
while at the head of the chamber behind the usual police-court bulwark,
sat the judge--a white-haired, hook-nosed man of more than seventy,
peering over the top of his eyeglasses with a look of shrewd, merciless
divination.
"William Taylor!" calls a court officer.
A negro is brought from the cage to the bar of justice. He is a sad
spectacle, his face adorned with a long strip of surgeon's plaster. The
judge looks at him over his glasses. The hearing proceeds as follows:
COURT OFFICER (to prisoner)--Get over there! (Prisoner obeys.)
JUDGE CRUTCHFIELD--Sunday drunk--Five dollars.
It is over.
The next prisoner is already on his way to the bar. He is a short, wide
negro, very black and tattered. A large black negress, evidently his
consort, arises as witness against him. The case goes as follows:
JUDGE CRUTCHFIELD--Drunk?
THE WIFE (looking contemptuously at her spouse)--Drunk? Yass, Jedge,
drunk. _Always_ drunk.
THE PRISONER (meekly)--I ain't been drunk, Jedge.
THE JUDGE--Yes, you have. I can see you've got your sign up this
morning. (Looking toward cage at back of room): Make them niggers stop
talkin' back there! (To the wife): What did he do, Mandy?
THE WIFE (angrily)--Jedge, he come bustin' in, and he come so fast he
untook the do' off'n de hinges; den 'e begins--
THE JUDGE (to the prisoner, sarcastically)--You wasn't drunk, eh?
THE PRISONER (weakly)--I might of had a drink oh two.
THE JUDGE (severely)--Was--you--_drunk_?
THE PRISONER--No, suh, Jedge. Ah wasn't drunk. Ah don't think no man's
drunk s' long 's he can navigate, Jedge. I don't--
THE JUDGE--Oh, yes, he can be! He can navigate and navigate mighty
mean!--Ten dollars.
(At this point an officer speaks in a low tone to the judge, evidently
interceding for the prisoner.)
THE JUDGE (loudly)--No. That fine's very small. If it ain't worth ten
dollars to get drunk, it ain't worth nothing at all. Next case!
(While the next prisoner is being brought up, the judge entertains his
audience with one of the humorous monologues for which he is famous, and
which, together with the summary "justice" he metes out, keeps ripples
of laughter running through the room): I'm going to get drunk myself,
some day, and see what it does to me. [Laughter.] Mebbe I'll take a
little cocaine, too.
A NEGRO VOICE (from back of room, deep bass, and very fervent)--Oh,
_no-o-o_! Don't do dat, Jedge! [More laughter.]
THE JUDGE--Where's that prisoner? If he was a Baptist, he wouldn't be so
slow.
(The prisoner, a yellow negro, is brought to the bar. His trousers are
mended with a large safety pin and his other equipment is to match.)
THE JUDGE (inspecting the prisoner sharply)--You ain't a Richmond
nigger. I can tell that to look at you.
THE PRISONER--No, suh, Jedge. That's right.
THE JUDGE--Where you from? You're from No'th Ca'lina, ain't you?
THE PRISONER--Yas, suh, Jedge.
THE JUDGE--Six months!
(A great laugh rises from the courtroom at this. On inquiry we learn
that the "joke" depends upon the judge's well-known aversion for negroes
from North Carolina.)
Only recently I have heard Walter C. Kelly as "The Virginia Judge." Save
for a certain gentle side which Mr. Kelly indicates, and of which I saw
no signs in Judge Crutchfield, I should say that, even though Judge
Crutchfield is not his model, the suggestion of him is strongly there.
Two of Mr. Kelly's "cases" are particularly reminiscent of the Richmond
Police Court. One is as follows:
THE JUDGE--First case--Sadie Anderson.
THE PRISONER--Yassir! That's me!
THE JUDGE--Thirty days in jail. That's me! Next case.
The other:
THE JUDGE--What's your name?
THE PRISONER--Sam Williams.
THE JUDGE--How old are you, Sam?
THE PRISONER--Just twenty-four.
THE JUDGE--You'll be just twenty-five when you get out. Next case!