Daybreak found me still wandering in the streets, haunted by the
fear that the police might already be upon my track and furious at
the thought that one foolish step should have changed me from a
prosperous and powerful member of the bar into a fugitive. Often
in earlier days I had pitied the wretches who would come slinking
into our office after nightfall, empty their pockets of gold and
notes--taken often, no doubt, by force or fraud from others--and
pour it out before us, begging for our aid to save them from
punishment. It seemed incredible to me that human beings should
have staked their liberty and often their lives for a few wretched
dollars. Outcasts, they skulked through existence, forced, once
they had begun, to go on and on committing crimes--on the one hand
to live, and on the other to pay tribute to Gottlieb and myself,
who alone stood between them and jail. How they had cringed to
us. We were their masters, cracking the lash of blackmail across
their shoulders and sharing equally, if invisibly, in their crimes!
And how I had scorned them--fools, as they seemed to me, to take
such desperate chances! Yet, as the sun rose, I now saw myself as
one of the beings whom I had so despised. We were no longer their
masters--they were our masters! Hawkins had us in his power. He
alone could prevent us from donning prison stripes.
Already the streets were beginning to stir. Wagons rumbled along
the pavements. Streams of people emerged from the caverns of the
east and trudged westward across the city. I circled the square
and entered it from the lower side. My big brick mansion, with
its stone trimmings--the home where I had held my revels and
entertained my friends, where I had worked and slept--was but a
stone's throw away. I strained my eyes to detect any signs of the
police; but the street was empty. Then, pulling my hat down upon
my head, I turned up my coat-collar and, glancing from side to
side, hurried across the square and let myself in.
The household still slept. The air was close and heavy with the
perfume of roses and the reek of dead cigars. On the floor of the
entrance hall lay a pair of woman's white gloves, palms upward.
Beyond, through the open doors of the dining-room, I could see the
uncleared table, littered over with half-empty bottles and glasses.
An upset chair reclined as it had fallen. Last night I had been
an envied host; to-day I was an outcast.
As I stood there, a shadow darkened the doorway and with a leap of
the heart I jumped behind a portière. Then, as the shadow remained
and knowing that in any event I was trapped, I threw open the door.
Gottlieb, with wild eyes peering out of a haggard face, stood before
me. Without a moment's hesitation, he dodged inside.
"Did you get it?" he almost shrieked.
"Yes," I answered faintly. "What are we to do?"
"For God's sake give me something to drink!" he cried. "I need it!"
I led him to the sideboard and filled two glasses with whiskey.
"Here's to crime!" I muttered, with a bitter laugh.
Gottlieb shot a fierce look at me and his hand shook so that I
thought he would drop the tumbler; but he poured the liquor down
his throat and threw himself into a chair.
"That fellow has us by the throat!" he groaned.
"We should have thought of that--" I began.
"Stop!" he gasped. "You can hold a post-mortem later on. They
haven't got us yet--and, by God! we've a long start. Once let us
whip Hawkins out of the way and they're helpless! I must stay here
to fight the case, but you, Quib, must take this fellow where
they'll never find him--Africa, Alaska, Europe--anywhere! If you
could drop him over a precipice or off an ocean liner--so much the
better!"
For an instant we eyed each other keenly. Then I shook my head.
"No," said I. "If it came to that I'd rather go to jail."
It was now nearly seven o'clock and I felt faint for something to
eat; so I stumbled upstairs and awakened my butler, who stared at
me stupidly when he saw me beside his bed in evening dress. When
I rejoined Gottlieb I found him examining the morning paper, which
a boy had just brought to the front door. Across the front page
in double-leaded type was printed:
THE DILLINGHAM DIVORCE AGAIN
Arthur P. Hawkins Indicted for Perjury
Extraordinary Disclosures Expected
Two Prominent Criminal Attorneys Said to be Involved
"They've raised the hue and cry already!" muttered my partner,
pointing to the paper. "Damn them! How ready they are to turn on
a man! Think of all the stories I've given to these very papers!
Stories worth thousands of dollars to 'em! And now--they're after
our hearts' blood!"
While we were waiting for our breakfast he outlined his plan. We
were to get Hawkins out of town as soon as we had given bail for
him. Of course the railroads and ferries would be watched, but we
could manage somehow. I must take the fellow where nobody would
find him and keep him there. If he ever were brought back and
convicted he would turn on us like a snake. Only while he still
hoped to escape prison could we count on his co-operation. Meanwhile
my partner would remain in the city and try to upset the indictment.
Anyhow, some one must stand guard over Dillingham; for, if he lost
his nerve and endeavored to save himself by confessing his part in
the affair, we would be lost!
Gloomily we ate a few pieces of toast and swallowed our coffee.
Then I hastily changed my clothes and accompanied Gottlieb to the
Tombs, to which Hawkins had been transferred the night before. He
was brought down to us in the counsel-room, looking like a scared
and sickly ghost. What little spirit he had before had already
vanished. I have never seen a more wretched human creature. His
one dread was of going to prison; and together we hastened to
convince him that his only avenue of escape lay through us. We
pointed out to him that so long as he stuck to the story we should
prepare for him he had nothing to fear; and, as evidence of our
power to protect him, we instanced the fact that we had already
secured fifty thousand dollars' cash bail for him. At this he took
much heart, and even whistled a bit and begged us for a drink, but
we slapped him on the back and told him that he could have anything
he wanted once he was outside the Tombs--not before; so he gave us
a cold, slimy hand and promised to do precisely as we wished.
Ten-thirty came and we both walked across to Part One of the General
Sessions, where for so many years we had been monarchs of all we
surveyed. A great throng filled the room and many reporters
clustered around the tables by the rail, while at the head of a
long line of waiting prisoners stood the bedraggled Hawkins.
Presently the judge came in and took his seat and the spectators
surged forward so that the officers had difficulty in preserving
order. Somehow, it seemed almost as if we were being arraigned
ourselves--not appearing as counsel for another; but Gottlieb
preserved his composure admirably and, when Hawkins's name was
called, stepped forward, entered a plea of not guilty for him and
gave bail. We had already deposited the money with the city
chamberlain and Hawkins was immediately discharged, pending his
trial for perjury; but the tremendous sum demanded as security and
the fact that it was immediately forthcoming for a prisoner who
looked as if he had not a cent in the world of his own, and who
was known to be a mere waiter in a restaurant, caused a sensation
throughout the court-room; and as we forced our way to the street
we were accompanied by a multitude, who jeered at the defendant
and occasionally took a fling at Gottlieb and myself. We still,
however, were persons to be feared, and few dared venture beyond
making suggestive allusions to our obvious desire to secure the
immediate liberty of our client.
So far we had no reason to believe that the district attorney--a
man of high integrity and unrelenting zeal in the discharge of his
official duties--had sought to tamper with Hawkins; but I instinctively
felt that, once he had an opportunity to offer the latter personal
immunity in return for a confession which would implicate Gottlieb
and myself all would be over. As my partner had said, there was
only one thing to do--and that was to put it out of our client's
power to do us harm. The first step in this direction was to get
him hopelessly drunk, and this we successfully did in a back room
of our office.
Both of us knew that a dozen pairs of eyes were watching the entrance
of the old-fashioned building in which our rooms were located, and
that any attempt on our part to get Hawkins out of the city would
result in his immediate arrest. Once he were sent back to the
Tombs he would be out of our control. So, for three days, we kept
him--a foul, unwashed, maudlin thing--a practical prisoner, although
from his condition quite unconscious of it. Day and night, turn
and turn about, Gottlieb and I watched while he snored and gibbered,
cursed and giggled; but the strain was getting too much for both
of us and we set ourselves at work to devise a way to spirit him
away.
Our offices were situated in a block the other side of which
consisted of tenement-houses. Investigation showed that it would
be possible to get over the roofs, walk nearly the length of the
block and gain access to one of the more distant tenements through
a skylight. For the sum of fifty dollars we found an Italian fruit-
dealer who was willing to hire himself, his rickety wagon, and his
spavined horse for our enterprise; and he agreed to carry Hawkins
concealed under piles of produce to a point on Long Island, where
we could take a ferry across to one of the Connecticut towns.
The following night we arranged that a hack should be drawn up
early in the evening in front of the entrance to the office, and
bags and boxes were brought out and piled upon the seat beside the
driver. We then half dragged, half lifted Hawkins up the stairs
and on the roof by means of a shaky ladder and conducted him across
the leads to the scuttle of the tenement-house. At this juncture,
by prearrangement, three of our clerks, one of whom somewhat
resembled Hawkins in size and who was arrayed in the latter's coat
and hat, rushed out of the office and climbed into the hack, which
at once set off at a furious gallop up Centre Street. Coincidentally
Gottlieb and I escorted our still maudlin prisoner down the narrow
stairs at the other end of the block and cajoled him into getting
into a sack, which the Italian placed in the bottom of the cart
and covered with greens. I now put on a disguise, consisting of
a laborer's overalls and tattered cap, while Gottlieb wheeled out
a safety bicycle which had been carefully concealed in the basement.
I had ten thousand dollars in the pocket of my ragged trousers and
a forty-four-calibre revolver at my hip. Gottlieb drew me back
into the shadow and whispered harshly in my ear.
"Quib," said he, "this fellow must never come back!--do you
understand? Once the district attorney gets hold of him, it's all
up with us! It's Sing Sing for each of us--ten years of it! For
God's sake, hire somebody to put him out of the way!--quietly.
Many a man would take him off our hands for a thousand or so."
I shuddered at the cold-blooded suggestion, yet I did not utter
one word of refusal, and must have led Gottlieb to believe that I
was of a mind with him, for he slapped me on the shoulder and bade
me good luck. Good luck! Was ever a man of decent birth and
education forced upon such an errand? The convoying of a drunken
criminal to--where? I knew not--somewhere whence he could not
return.
Thus I set forth into the night upon my bicycle, my money bulging
in my pocket, my pistol knocking against the seat at every turn of
the wheel, my trousers catching and tearing in the pedals. At last
I crossed the bridge and turned into the wastes of Queens. Gas-
houses, factories, and rotting buildings loomed black and weird
against the sky. I pedaled on and at last found myself upon a
country road. I dared not ask my way, but luckily I had stumbled
upon the highway to Port Washington, whence there was a ferry to
the Connecticut shore. As I stole along in the darkness, my ear
caught far ahead a voice roaring out a ribald song--and I knew that
the time had come to take personal charge of my wretched client--
the "old man of the sea" that my own stupidity had seated upon my
shoulders. Soon I overtook them, the Italian stolidly driving his
weary horse and Hawkins sitting beside him with the sack wrapped
around his shoulders. I halted them, threw my bicycle in among
the vegetables, and climbed up to where they sat. Hawkins gave a
great shout of laughter when he saw who it was and threw his arm
around my neck, but I pushed him away and he nearly fell under the
wheels. My gorge rose at him! Yet to him I was shackled as tightly
as ever a criminal was to his keeper!
The thought of the remainder of that night and of the ensuing three
days and nights sickens me even now. In the early dawn we crossed
the ferry with dozens of other produce-laden wagons and landed on
the opposite side of the Sound, where we caught a local train for
Hartford. I had made no arrangements for communicating with
Gottlieb, and was in utter ignorance of whether or not our escape
had been discovered. We sat in the smoking-car, Hawkins by this
time ill and peevish. The air was stifling, yet I could not,
arrayed as I was or in the company of my client, go into the regular
passenger coach. At Hartford we changed for Springfield and I
purchased a New York paper. There was nothing in it relating to
the case and I breathed more easily; but, once in Springfield, I
knew not which way to turn, and Hawkins by this time was crazy for
drink and refusing to go farther. I gave him enough liquor to keep
him quiet and thrust him on a way train for Worcester. Already I
had exhausted my small bills and when I tried to cash one for a
hundred dollars the ticket agent in the station eyed me with
suspicion.
That night we slept in a single bed, Hawkins and I, in a cheap
lodging-house--that is, _he_ slept a sordid, drunken sleep, while
I lay tossing and cursing my fate until, burning with fever, I rose
and drained part of the water in the pitcher. Yet, in the early
morning hours there came to me the first ray of hope throughout
that dreary space since I had left New York--the Quirks! The
Quirks! Twenty years had passed since I had heard from them. They
might be dead and gone long ago without my knowing it; yet, were
they alive, I felt that one or other of them would hold out a
friendly hand for auld lang syne. Before daybreak, I stole forth,
hired a horse and buggy, asked the way to Methuen and, rousing
Hawkins, bundled him, whining and fretting, into it.
Slowly we drove in the growing light through the country lanes I
had known and loved so well as a lad--the farmland which was the
only friendly thing in my disconsolate boyhood. It was in the
early spring and the apple-trees along the stone walls by the
roadside were showered with clustering blossoms. Dandelions
sprinkled the fields. The cloud shadows slowly moved across rich
pastures of delicate green. A sun-warmed, perfume-laden breeze
blew from the east, tinged with a keen edge that sent the blood
leaping in my temples. Tiny pools stood in the ruts glinting blue
toward the sky. The old horse plodded slowly on and the robins
called among the elms that stood arching over white farm-houses
with blinds, some blue, some green.
With a harrowing sense of helplessness, the realization of what I
had thrown away of life swept over me. I turned from the sodden
creature beside me in disgust. Hawkins had slumped back in his
seat, so that his head rested upon the hood, and had fallen sound
asleep, with his mouth wide open. How I wished that I had the
courage to strangle him--and then it came to me that, after all,
it was not he who had ruined me, but I who had ruined him!
About noontime we came to a landscape that seemed familiar to me,
although more heavily wooded and with many more farms than I
remembered; and at a turn in the road I recognized a couple of huge
elms that marked the site of the homestead occupied in my boyhood
by the Quirks. There was the brook, the maple grove upon the hill,
the old stile by the pasture, and the long stone wall beside the
apple orchard, radiant with white. Yet the house seemed to have
vanished. My heart sank, for somehow I had assumed that the Quirks
must still be living, just as they had always lived. And now, as
we drew near the turn, I saw that the place where the homestead
had stood was empty, and all that remained was a heap of blackened
stone and brick thickly overgrown with brambles.
Fifty yards farther down the road we came upon an old man sitting
on the fence, smoking a pipe. He wore a tattered old brown felt
hat and overalls, and his long gray hair and beard were tangled
and unkempt. I passed the time of day and he answered me civilly
enough, although vacantly; and I saw that his eye had the red film
of the drunkard. When I asked him for Quirk, the schoolmaster,
who used to live thereabout he gave a mirthless chuckle.
"My name's Quirk," said he; "but it's fifteen years since I taught
school. How did you come to know of me?"
Could this be Quirk--this aged and decrepit old man! Somewhere
beneath that mat of hair and beard, did there remain traces of
those good-natured lineaments that were wont to set the boys in a
roar? I scanned his face closely. The man was a stranger to my
recollection.
"Do you remember me, Mr. Quirk?" I asked.
He peered out at me under his bushy brows and slowly removed his
pipe.
"Not to my knowledge," he answered. "What might be your name?"
"Quibble," I returned--"Artemas Quibble."
"Artemas Quibble!" he exclaimed in a faltering voice and feebly
crawled over to the buggy.
I climbed down to meet him and extended my hand.
"What has happened to you?" he stammered. "I thought you were a
great lawyer in New York."
"I'm in a peck of trouble," I answered. "I need all the friends
I've got. I hope you're still one of them?"
"Well, well!" he muttered. "And to think that you're Artie Quibble!
And who may this be?" pointing to Hawkins.
"I'll tell you all," said I, "later on. For the present, he's a
friend of mine who's travelling with me--more on business than on
pleasure."
Quirk's story was soon told. As I already expected, drink had
become his master. The school had fallen away, his wife had died,
and in a fit of despondency he had--he said accidentally, but I
believe intentionally--overturned a lamp and set fire to the house.
Now he lodged in a small hotel farther down the road, living from
hand to mouth, and doing a day's work here and there when chance
offered. I gave him fifty dollars and bade him good-bye, for he
had no accommodations to offer us even had I been able to induce
Hawkins to remain there. Thus I realized that the only refuge I
ever had from the outside world, the only real home I had ever
known, was gone. I had nowhere to go, nowhere to deposit my evil
load.
We drove on for a space, and now Hawkins awoke and began to clamor
for food. Where was I taking him? he demanded to know. And why
was I togged out like a bricklayer? He announced that he had had
enough of this kind of travelling and insisted on going to a hotel
and having a decent meal. I tried to reason with him and explained
that it was only for a day or so, and that presumably we would go
to Boston or some other city, where he should have everything that
money could buy. But he leered at me and said he had plenty of
promises already; that we had promised him that he would get into
no trouble if he signed his original affidavit, and that, unless
he were treated like a gentleman, he would go back to New York and
get other lawyers. He must have seen me turn white at his threat,
for from that moment he held it over me, constantly repeating it
and insinuating that I was not so anxious to save him as to save
myself, which, alas! I could not gainsay.
Soon we came to a small town and here Hawkins flatly refused to go
any farther. There was a hotel on the main street, and the fellow
clambered out of the buggy and staggered into the bar and called
loudly for whiskey. There was nothing for it but to put up the
horse in the stable and do as my prisoner demanded. So we had
dinner together, Hawkins talking in a loud, thick voice that made
the waitresses and other guests stare at him and me as if we were
some sort of outlandish folk; and after the meal was over he dragged
me to the nearest clothier and ordered new ready-made suits for
both of us. He had now imbibed much more than was good for him;
and when I took out my roll of bills to pay for what we had bought
he snatched it out of my hand and refused to give it back. For a
moment I almost surrendered myself to despair. I had had no sleep
for two nights, I was overwhelmed with mortification and disgust,
and here I was in a country store pranked out like a popinjay, the
keeper of a half-crazy wretch who made me dance to any tune he
chose to pipe; but I pulled myself together and cajoled Hawkins
into leaving the place and giving me back a small part of the money.
There was a train just leaving for Boston and my companion insisted
upon taking it, saying that he proposed to spend the money that
Dillingham had so kindly furnished him with. I never knew how he
discovered the part Dillingham was playing in this strange drama;
but if no one told him, he at any rate divined it somehow, and from
this moment he assumed the lead and directed all our movements.
It is true that I persuaded him to go to one of the smaller and
less conspicuous hotels, but he at once sent for another tailor,
ordered an elaborate meal for supper, with champagne, and procured
a box at one of the theatres, whither I was obliged to escort him.
Neither would he longer permit me to occupy the same room with him
--precious privilege!--but engaged a palatial suite for himself,
with a parlor, while I had a small and modest room farther down
the hall. In some respects this suited me well, however, since I
was now able to induce him to have his meals served upstairs. Yet
I began to see the foolishness of thinking that we could elude the
police should they set out to seek seriously for us, since, apart
from changing our names, we were making no effort at disguising
ourselves.
The day after our arrival, Hawkins slept late and I slipped out
about ten o'clock and wandering aimlessly came to Barristers' Hall,
where twenty years before old Tuckerman Toddleham had his office.
The day was warm and humid, like that upon which so long ago I had
visited the old lawyer when a student at Harvard and had received
from him my sentence. Even as then, some birds were twittering
around the stone window-ledges. An impulse that at the moment was
beyond my control led me up the narrow, dingy stairs to the landing
where the lawyer's office had been. A green-baize door, likely
enough the same one, still hung there--where the lawyer's office
had been. Naught about the room was altered. There were the
bookcases, with their glass doors and green-silk curtains; the
threadbare carpet, the portrait of the Honorable Jeremiah Mason
over the fireplace; the old mahogany desk; the little bronze paper-
weight in the shape of a horse; the books, brown and faded with
years; and at the desk--I brushed my hand across my eyes--at the
desk sat old Tuckerman Toddleham himself!
For the first time in my entire existence, so far as I can now
remember, I was totally nonplussed and abashed. I could not have
been more astonished had I walked into the family lot in the Salem
cemetery and found my grandfather sitting on his own tombstone;
but there the old lawyer surely was, as certainly as he had been
there twenty years before; and the same sensations that I had always
experienced as a child while in his presence now swept over me and
made me feel like a whipped school-boy. Not for the world would
I have had him see me and be forced to answer his questions as to
my business in the city of Boston; so, holding my breath, I tiptoed
out of the door, and the last vision I ever had of him was as he
sat there absorbed in some legal problem, bending over his books,
the sunlight flooding the mote-filled air of the dusty office, the
little bronze horse standing before him on the desk and the branches
of the trees outside casting flickering shadows upon the walls and
bookcases. Canny old man! He had never put his neck in a noose!
I envied him his quiet life among his books and the well-deserved
respect and honor that the world accorded him.
Ruminating in this strain, I threaded my way through the crowd in
Court Street, and was about to return to my hotel, when to my utter
horror I beheld Hawkins, in all his regalia, being marched down
the hill between two business-like-looking persons, who were
unmistakably officers of police. He walked dejectedly and had lost
all his bravado. There was no blinking the fact that in my absence
he had managed somehow to stumble into the hands of the guardians
of the law and was now in process of being transported back to New
York.
For a moment my circulation stopped abruptly and a clammy moisture
broke out upon my back and forehead. Unostentatiously I slipped
into a cigar store and allowed the trio to pass me by. So the jig
was up! Back I must go, after my fruitless nightmare with the
wretch, to consult with my partner as to what was now to be done.
I reached the city late that evening, but not before I had read in
the evening papers a full account of the apprehension of the
fugitive, including my own part in the escape; and it now appeared
that the police had been fully cognizant of all our doings, including
the manner of our abduction of Hawkins from our office. They had,
under the instructions of the district attorney, simply permitted
us to carry out our plan in order to use the same as evidence
against us at the proper time, and had followed us every step of
the way to Worcester and on our drive to Methuen.
My heart almost failed me as I thought of how foolish I had been
to undertake this desperate journey myself, instead of sending some
one in my place for by so doing I had stamped myself as vitally
interested in my client's escape. Fearful to go to my own home,
lest I should find myself in the hands of the police, I spent the
night in a lodging-house on the water-front, wondering whether
Hawkins had already made his confession to the district attorney
in return for a promise of immunity; for I well knew that such a
promise would be forthcoming and that Hawkins was the last man in
the world to neglect the opportunity to save himself at our expense.
Next morning I telephoned Gottlieb and met him by appointment at
a hotel, where we had a heated colloquy, in which he seemed to
think that I was totally to blame for the failure of our attempt.
He was hardly himself, so worn out was he with anxiety, not having
heard from me until he had read of Hawkins's apprehension in Boston;
but, now that I was able to talk things over with him, we agreed
that any effort to spirit our client away would have been equally
unsuccessful, and that the one course remaining for us to pursue
was to put on as bold a front as possible and let the law take its
course. It was equally useless for us to try to conceal our own
whereabouts, for all our movements were undoubtedly watched; and
the best thing to do, it seemed to us, was to go as usual to our
office and to act as nearly as possible as if nothing had happened.
We were not mistaken as to the intended course of the district
attorney; for, when we visited the Tombs for the purpose of
interviewing Hawkins, we were informed by the warden that he had
obtained other counsel and that our services were no longer required.
This was an indisputable indication that he had gone over to the
enemy; and we at once began to take such steps as lay in our power
to prepare for our defence in case an indictment was found against
us. And now we were treated to a dose of the medicine we had
customarily administered to our own clients; for, when we tried to
secure counsel, we found that one and all insisted upon our paying
over in advance even greater fees as retainers than those which we
had demanded in like cases. I had never taken the trouble to lay
by anything, since I had always had all the ready cash I needed.
Gottlieb was in the same predicament, and in our distress we called
upon Dillingham to furnish us with the necessary amount; but, to
our amazement and horror, our erstwhile client refused to see us
or come to our office, and we definitely realized that he, too,
had sought safety in confession and would be used by the prosecution
in its effort to place the crime of perjury at our door.
From the moment of Hawkins's arrest the tide turned against us.
There seemed to be a general understanding throughout the city that
the district attorney intended to make an example in our case, and
to show that it was quite as possible to convict a member of the
bar as any one else. He certainly gave us no loophole of escape,
for he secured every witness that by any possibility we might have
called to our aid, and even descended upon our office with a search-
warrant in his effort to secure evidence against us. Luckily,
however, Gottlieb and I had made a practice of keeping no papers
and had carefully burned everything relating to the Dillingham case
before I had left the city.
The press preserved a singular and ominous silence in regard to
us, which lasted until one morning when a couple of officers appeared
with bench-warrants for our arrest. We had already made arrangements
for bail in the largest amount and had secured the services of the
ablest criminal attorneys we knew, so that we were speedily released;
but, with the return of our indictments charging us with suborning
the testimony of Hawkins, the papers began a regular crusade against
us. The evening edition carried spectacular front-page stories
recounting my flight to Boston, the entire history of the Dillingham
divorce, biographies of both Gottlieb and myself, and anecdotes of
cases in which we had appeared and notorious criminals whom we had
defended. And in all this storm of abuse and incrimination which
now burst over our heads not a single world appeared in mitigation
of our alleged offence.
It seemed as if the entire city had determined to wreak vengeance
upon us for all the misdeeds of the entire criminal bar. Even our
old clients, and the police and court officers who had drawn pay
from us, seemed to rejoice in our downfall. Every man's hand was
against us. The hue and cry had been raised and we were to be
harried out of town and into prison. At every turn we were forced
to pay out large sums to secure the slightest assistance; our clerks
and employees refused longer to work for us, and groups of loiterers
gathered about the office and pointed to the windows. Our lives
became a veritable hell, and I longed for the time when the anxiety
should be over and I should know whether the public clamor for a
victim were to be satisfied.
Gottlieb and the lawyers fought stubbornly every inch of the defence.
First, they attacked the validity of the proceedings, entered
demurrers, and made motions to dismiss the indictments. These
matters took a month or two to decide. Then came motions for a
change of venue, appeals from the decisions against us to the
Appellate Division, and other technical delays; so that four months
passed before, at last, we were forced to go to trial. By this
time my health had suffered; and when I looked at myself in the
glass I was shocked to find how gaunt and hollow-cheeked I had
grown. My hair, which had up to this time been dark brown, had in
a brief space turned quite gray over my ears, and whatever of good
looks I had ever possessed had vanished utterly. Gottlieb, too,
had altered from a jovial, sleek-looking fellow into a nervous,
worried, ratlike little man. My creditors pressed me for their
money and I was forced to close my house and live at a small hotel.
The misery of those days is something I do not care to recall. We
were both of us stripped, as it were, of everything at once--money,
friends, health, and position; for we were the jest and laughing-
stock of the very criminals who had before our downfall been our
clients and crowded our office in their eagerness to secure our
erstwhile powerful assistance. Our day was over!
It was useless to try to escape from the meshes of the net drawn
so tightly around us. Even if we could have forfeited our heavy
bail--which would have been an impossibility, owing to the watchfulness
of our bondsman--we could never have eluded the detectives who now
dogged our footsteps. We were marked men. Everywhere we were
pointed out and made the objects of comment and half-concealed
abuse. The final straw was when the district attorney, in his
anxiety lest we should slip through his fingers, caused our re-
arrest on a trumped-up charge that we were planning to leave the
city, and we were thrown into the Tombs, being unable to secure
the increased bail which he demanded. Here we had the pleasure of
having Hawkins leer down at us from the tier of cells above, and
here we suffered the torments of the damned at the hands of our
fellow prisoners, who, to a man, made it their daily business and
pleasure to render our lives miserable. Gottlieb wasted away to
a mere shadow and I became seriously ill from the suffocating heat
and loathsome food, for it was now midsummer and the Tombs was
crowded with prisoners waiting until the courts should open in the
autumn to be tried.
We were called to the bar together--Gottlieb and I--to answer to
the charge against us in the very court-room where my partner had
won so many forensic victories and secured the acquittal of so many
clients more fortunate than he. From the outset of the case
everything went against us; and it seemed as if judge, prosecutor,
and jury were united in a conspiracy to deprive us of our rights
and to railroad us to prison. Even when impaneling the jury, I
was amazed to find the prejudice against criminal lawyers in general
and ourselves in particular; for almost every other talesman swore
that he was so fixed in his opinion as to our guilt that it would
be impossible to give us a fair trial.
At last, however, after several days a jury of twelve hard-faced
citizens was sworn who asserted that they had no bias against us
and could give us a fair trial and the benefit of every reasonable
doubt. Fair trial, indeed! We were convicted before the first
witness was sworn! Convicted by the press, the public, and the
atmosphere that had been stirred up against us during the preceding
months. And yet, one satisfaction remained to me, and that was
the sight of Hawkins and Dillingham on the grill under the cross-
examination of our attorneys. Dillingham particularly was a pitiable
object, shaking and sweating upon the witness chair, and forced to
admit that he had paid Gottlieb and me thirty-five thousand dollars
to get him an annulment so that he could marry the woman with whom
he was now living. The court-room was jammed to the doors with a
curious crowd, anxious to see Gottlieb and me on trial and to learn
the nature of the evidence against us; and when our client left
the stand--a pitiful, wilted human creature--and crawled out of
the room, a jeering throng followed him downstairs and out into
the street.
The actual giving of evidence occupied but two days, the chief
witness next to Hawkins being the clerk who swore the latter to
his affidavit in my office. This treacherous rascal not only
testified that Hawkins took his oath to the contents of the paper,
but at the same time had told me that it was false. The farce went
on, a mere formal giving of testimony, until at length the district
attorney announced that he had no more evidence to offer.
"You may proceed with the defence," said the judge, turning to our
counsel.
I looked at Gottlieb and Gottlieb looked at me. The trial had
closed so suddenly that we were taken quite unawares and left wholly
undetermined what to do. We had practically no evidence to offer
on our behalf except our own denials of the testimony against us;
and if once either of us took the stand we should open the door to
a cross-examination at the hands of the district attorney of our
entire lives. For this cross-examination he had been preparing
for months; and I well knew that there was not a single shady
transaction in which we had participated, not one attempt at
blackmail, not a crooked defence that we had interposed that he
had not investigated and stood prepared to question us about in
detail.
"What shall we do?" whispered Gottlieb nervously. "Do you want to
take the stand?"
"How can we?" I asked petulantly. "If we did we should be convicted
--not for this but for every other thing we ever did in our lives.
Let's take a chance and go to the jury on the case as it stands."
After consulting with our counsel, the latter agreed that this was
the best course to pursue; and so, rising, he informed the court
that in his opinion no case had been made out against us and that
we should, therefore, interpose no defence. This announcement
caused a great stir in the court-room, and I could see by the faces
of the jury that it was all up with us. I had already surrendered
all hope of an acquittal and I looked upon the verdict of the jury
as a mere formality.
"Proceed, then, with the summing up," ordered the judge. "I wish
the jury to take this case and finish it to-night."
So, with that, our counsel began his argument in our behalf--a lame
and halting effort it seemed to me, for all that we had paid him
twenty-five thousand dollars for his services--pointing out how
neither Dillingham nor Hawkins was worthy of belief, and how the
case against us rested entirely upon their testimony and upon that
of the clerk, who was an insignificant and unimportant witness
injected simply for the sake of apparent corroboration. Faugh!
I have heard Gottlieb make a better address to the jury a thousand
times, and yet this man was supposed to be one of the best! Somehow
throughout the trial he had seemed to me to be ill at ease and sick
of his job, a mere puppet in the mummery going on about us; yet we
had no choice but to let him continue his ill-concealed plea for
mercy and his wretched rhetoric, until the judge stopped him and
said that his time was up.
When the district attorney arose and the jury turned to him with
uplifted faces, then, for the first time, I realized the real
attitude of the community toward us; for in scathing terms he
denounced us both as men not merely who defended criminals but who,
in fact, created them; as plotters against the administration of
justice; as arch-crooks, who lived off the proceeds of crimes which
we devised and planned for others to execute. It was false and
unfair; but the jury believed him--I could well see that.
"These men have made a fat living for nearly a generation in this
city by blackmail, bribery, and perjury. They have made a business
of ruining homes, reputations, and the lives of others. They have
directed the operations of organized bands of criminals. They are
the Fagins of the city of New York. Once the poor and defenceless
have fallen into their power, they have extorted tribute from them
and turned them into the paths of crime. Better that one of them
should be convicted than a thousand of the miserable wretches
ordinarily brought to the bar of justice!"
And in this strain he went on until he had bared Gottlieb and myself
to our very souls. When he concluded there was a ripple of applause
from the spectators that the court officers made little attempt to
subdue; and the judge began his charge, which lasted but a few
minutes. What he said was fair enough, and I had no mind to quarrel
with him, although our counsel took many exceptions. The jury
retired and my partner and I were led downstairs into the prison
pen. It was crowded with miserable creatures waiting to be tried
--negroes and Sicilians, thieves and burglars--who took keen delight
in jostling us and foretelling what long sentences we were to
receive. One negro kicked me in the shins and cursed me for being
a shyster, and when I protested to the keeper he only laughed at me.
About half an hour later an officer came to the head of the stairs
and shouted down:
"Bring up Gottlieb and Quibble!"
Our keeper unlocked the pen and, followed by the execrations of
our associates, we stumbled up the stairs and into the court-room.
Slowly we marched around to the bar, while every eye was fixed upon
us. The jury was already back in the box and standing to render
their decision. The clerk rapped for order and turned to the
foreman.
"Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?" he intoned.
"We have," answered the foreman unhesitatingly.
"How say you, do you find the defendants guilty or not guilty?"
"We find both of them guilty!" replied the foreman.
A slight shiver passed through Gottlieb's little body and for a
moment the blood sang in my ears. No man can receive a verdict of
guilty unperturbed, no matter how confidently expected. The crowd
murmured their approval and the judge rapped for silence.
"Are you ready for sentence?" asked the judge.
We nodded. It was useless to prolong the agony.
"I have nothing to say to you," remarked the judge, "in addition
to what the district attorney has said. He has fully expressed my
own sentiments in this case. I regard you as vampires, sucking
the blood of the weak, helpless, and criminal. Mercy would be out
of place if extended toward you. I sentence you both to the full
limit which the law allows--ten years in State's prison at hard
labor."
An officer clapped us upon the back, faced us round toward the rear
of the court-room, and pushed us toward the door leading to the
prison pen, while another slipped a handcuff on my right wrist and
snapped its mate on Gottlieb's left.
"Get on there," he growled, "where you belong!"
The crowds strained to get a look at us as, with averted faces, we
trudged toward the door leading to the prison pen. Our lawyers
had already hastened away to avoid any reflected ignominy that
might attach to them. The jurymen were shaking hands with the
district attorney.
"Adjourn court!" I heard the judge remark.
With a whoop, the spectators in the court-room crowded upon our
heels and surged up to the grating before the door.
"There's Gottlieb!" cried one. "The little fellow!"
"And that's Quibble--the pale chap with the thin face!" said
another.
"Damn you! Get out of the way!" I shouted threateningly.
"There go the shysters!" retorted the crowd. "Sing Sing's the best
place for them!"
The keeper opened the door and motioned back the spectators. I
staggered through, shackled to my partner and dragging him along
with me. As the door clanged to I heard some one say:
"There goes the last of the firm of Gottlieb & Quibble!"
End of Project Gutenberg's The Confessions of Artemas Quibble, by Arthur Train