Meanwhile the great argument had been begun in the jury-room, and all
the points that had been meditatively speculated upon in the jury-box
were now being openly discussed.
It is amazingly interesting to see how a jury will waver and speculate
in a case like this—how curious and uncertain is the process by which
it makes up its so-called mind. So-called truth is a nebulous thing at
best; facts are capable of such curious inversion and interpretation,
honest and otherwise. The jury had a strongly complicated problem
before it, and it went over it and over it.
Juries reach not so much definite conclusions as verdicts, in a curious
fashion and for curious reasons. Very often a jury will have concluded
little so far as its individual members are concerned and yet it will
have reached a verdict. The matter of time, as all lawyers know, plays
a part in this. Juries, speaking of the members collectively and
frequently individually, object to the amount of time it takes to
decide a case. They do not enjoy sitting and deliberating over a
problem unless it is tremendously fascinating. The ramifications or the
mystery of a syllogism can become a weariness and a bore. The jury-room
itself may and frequently does become a dull agony.
On the other hand, no jury contemplates a disagreement with any degree
of satisfaction. There is something so inherently constructive in the
human mind that to leave a problem unsolved is plain misery. It haunts
the average individual like any other important task left unfinished.
Men in a jury-room, like those scientifically demonstrated atoms of a
crystal which scientists and philosophers love to speculate upon, like
finally to arrange themselves into an orderly and artistic whole, to
present a compact, intellectual front, to be whatever they have set out
to be, properly and rightly—a compact, sensible jury. One sees this
same instinct magnificently displayed in every other phase of nature—in
the drifting of sea-wood to the Sargasso Sea, in the geometric
interrelation of air-bubbles on the surface of still water, in the
marvelous unreasoned architecture of so many insects and atomic forms
which make up the substance and the texture of this world. It would
seem as though the physical substance of life—this apparition of form
which the eye detects and calls real were shot through with some vast
subtlety that loves order, that is order. The atoms of our so-called
being, in spite of our so-called reason—the dreams of a mood—know where
to go and what to do. They represent an order, a wisdom, a willing that
is not of us. They build orderly in spite of us. So the subconscious
spirit of a jury. At the same time, one does not forget the strange
hypnotic effect of one personality on another, the varying effects of
varying types on each other, until a solution—to use the word in its
purely chemical sense—is reached. In a jury-room the thought or
determination of one or two or three men, if it be definite enough, is
likely to pervade the whole room and conquer the reason or the
opposition of the majority. One man “standing out” for the definite
thought that is in him is apt to become either the triumphant leader of
a pliant mass or the brutally battered target of a flaming,
concentrated intellectual fire. Men despise dull opposition that is
without reason. In a jury-room, of all places, a man is expected to
give a reason for the faith that is in him—if one is demanded. It will
not do to say, “I cannot agree.” Jurors have been known to fight.
Bitter antagonisms lasting for years have been generated in these close
quarters. Recalcitrant jurors have been hounded commercially in their
local spheres for their unreasoned oppositions or conclusions.
After reaching the conclusion that Cowperwood unquestionably deserved
some punishment, there was wrangling as to whether the verdict should
be guilty on all four counts, as charged in the indictment. Since they
did not understand how to differentiate between the various charges
very well, they decided it should be on all four, and a recommendation
to mercy added. Afterward this last was eliminated, however; either he
was guilty or he was not. The judge could see as well as they could all
the extenuating circumstances—perhaps better. Why tie his hands? As a
rule no attention was paid to such recommendations, anyhow, and it only
made the jury look wabbly.
So, finally, at ten minutes after twelve that night, they were ready to
return a verdict; and Judge Payderson, who, because of his interest in
the case and the fact that he lived not so far away, had decided to
wait up this long, was recalled. Steger and Cowperwood were sent for.
The court-room was fully lighted. The bailiff, the clerk, and the
stenographer were there. The jury filed in, and Cowperwood, with Steger
at his right, took his position at the gate which gave into the railed
space where prisoners always stand to hear the verdict and listen to
any commentary of the judge. He was accompanied by his father, who was
very nervous.
For the first time in his life he felt as though he were walking in his
sleep. Was this the real Frank Cowperwood of two months before—so
wealthy, so progressive, so sure? Was this only December 5th or 6th now
(it was after midnight)? Why was it the jury had deliberated so long?
What did it mean? Here they were now, standing and gazing solemnly
before them; and here now was Judge Payderson, mounting the steps of
his rostrum, his frizzled hair standing out in a strange, attractive
way, his familiar bailiff rapping for order. He did not look at
Cowperwood—it would not be courteous—but at the jury, who gazed at him
in return. At the words of the clerk, “Gentlemen of the jury, have you
agreed upon a verdict?” the foreman spoke up, “We have.”
“Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”
“We find the defendant guilty as charged in the indictment.”
How had they come to do this? Because he had taken a check for sixty
thousand dollars which did not belong to him? But in reality it did.
Good Lord, what was sixty thousand dollars in the sum total of all the
money that had passed back and forth between him and George W. Stener?
Nothing, nothing! A mere bagatelle in its way; and yet here it had
risen up, this miserable, insignificant check, and become a mountain of
opposition, a stone wall, a prison-wall barring his further progress.
It was astonishing. He looked around him at the court-room. How large
and bare and cold it was! Still he was Frank A. Cowperwood. Why should
he let such queer thoughts disturb him? His fight for freedom and
privilege and restitution was not over yet. Good heavens! It had only
begun. In five days he would be out again on bail. Steger would take an
appeal. He would be out, and he would have two long months in which to
make an additional fight. He was not down yet. He would win his
liberty. This jury was all wrong. A higher court would say so. It would
reverse their verdict, and he knew it. He turned to Steger, where the
latter was having the clerk poll the jury, in the hope that some one
juror had been over-persuaded, made to vote against his will.
“Is that your verdict?” he heard the clerk ask of Philip Moultrie,
juror No. 1.
“It is,” replied that worthy, solemnly.
“Is that your verdict?” The clerk was pointing to Simon Glassberg.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that your verdict?” He pointed to Fletcher Norton.
“Yes.”
So it went through the whole jury. All the men answered firmly and
clearly, though Steger thought it might barely be possible that one
would have changed his mind. The judge thanked them and told them that
in view of their long services this night, they were dismissed for the
term. The only thing remaining to be done now was for Steger to
persuade Judge Payderson to grant a stay of sentence pending the
hearing of a motion by the State Supreme Court for a new trial.
The Judge looked at Cowperwood very curiously as Steger made this
request in proper form, and owing to the importance of the case and the
feeling he had that the Supreme Court might very readily grant a
certificate of reasonable doubt in this case, he agreed. There was
nothing left, therefore, but for Cowperwood to return at this late hour
with the deputy sheriff to the county jail, where he must now remain
for five days at least—possibly longer.
The jail in question, which was known locally as Moyamensing Prison,
was located at Tenth and Reed Streets, and from an architectural and
artistic point of view was not actually displeasing to the eye. It
consisted of a central portion—prison, residence for the sheriff or
what you will—three stories high, with a battlemented cornice and a
round battlemented tower about one-third as high as the central portion
itself, and two wings, each two stories high, with battlemented turrets
at either end, giving it a highly castellated and consequently, from
the American point of view, a very prison-like appearance. The facade
of the prison, which was not more than thirty-five feet high for the
central portion, nor more than twenty-five feet for the wings, was set
back at least a hundred feet from the street, and was continued at
either end, from the wings to the end of the street block, by a stone
wall all of twenty feet high. The structure was not severely
prison-like, for the central portion was pierced by rather large,
unbarred apertures hung on the two upper stories with curtains, and
giving the whole front a rather pleasant and residential air. The wing
to the right, as one stood looking in from the street, was the section
known as the county jail proper, and was devoted to the care of
prisoners serving short-term sentences on some judicial order. The wing
to the left was devoted exclusively to the care and control of untried
prisoners. The whole building was built of a smooth, light-colored
stone, which on a snowy night like this, with the few lamps that were
used in it glowing feebly in the dark, presented an eery, fantastic,
almost supernatural appearance.
It was a rough and blowy night when Cowperwood started for this
institution under duress. The wind was driving the snow before it in
curious, interesting whirls. Eddie Zanders, the sheriff’s deputy on
guard at the court of Quarter Sessions, accompanied him and his father
and Steger. Zanders was a little man, dark, with a short, stubby
mustache, and a shrewd though not highly intelligent eye. He was
anxious first to uphold his dignity as a deputy sheriff, which was a
very important position in his estimation, and next to turn an honest
penny if he could. He knew little save the details of his small world,
which consisted of accompanying prisoners to and from the courts and
the jails, and seeing that they did not get away. He was not unfriendly
to a particular type of prisoner—the well-to-do or moderately
prosperous—for he had long since learned that it paid to be so.
To-night he offered a few sociable suggestions—viz., that it was rather
rough, that the jail was not so far but that they could walk, and that
Sheriff Jaspers would, in all likelihood, be around or could be
aroused. Cowperwood scarcely heard. He was thinking of his mother and
his wife and of Aileen.
When the jail was reached he was led to the central portion, as it was
here that the sheriff, Adlai Jaspers, had his private office. Jaspers
had recently been elected to office, and was inclined to conform to all
outward appearances, in so far as the proper conduct of his office was
concerned, without in reality inwardly conforming. Thus it was
generally known among the politicians that one way he had of fattening
his rather lean salary was to rent private rooms and grant special
privileges to prisoners who had the money to pay for the same. Other
sheriffs had done it before him. In fact, when Jaspers was inducted
into office, several prisoners were already enjoying these privileges,
and it was not a part of his scheme of things to disturb them. The
rooms that he let to the “right parties,” as he invariably put it, were
in the central portion of the jail, where were his own private living
quarters. They were unbarred, and not at all cell-like. There was no
particular danger of escape, for a guard stood always at his private
door instructed “to keep an eye” on the general movements of all the
inmates. A prisoner so accommodated was in many respects quite a free
person. His meals were served to him in his room, if he wished. He
could read or play cards, or receive guests; and if he had any favorite
musical instrument, that was not denied him. There was just one rule
that had to be complied with. If he were a public character, and any
newspaper men called, he had to be brought down-stairs into the private
interviewing room in order that they might not know that he was not
confined in a cell like any other prisoner.
Nearly all of these facts had been brought to Cowperwood’s attention
beforehand by Steger; but for all that, when he crossed the threshold
of the jail a peculiar sensation of strangeness and defeat came over
him. He and his party were conducted to a little office to the left of
the entrance, where were only a desk and a chair, dimly lighted by a
low-burning gas-jet. Sheriff Jaspers, rotund and ruddy, met them,
greeting them in quite a friendly way. Zanders was dismissed, and went
briskly about his affairs.
“A bad night, isn’t it?” observed Jaspers, turning up the gas and
preparing to go through the routine of registering his prisoner. Steger
came over and held a short, private conversation with him in his
corner, over his desk which resulted presently in the sheriff’s face
lighting up.
“Oh, certainly, certainly! That’s all right, Mr. Steger, to be sure!
Why, certainly!”
Cowperwood, eyeing the fat sheriff from his position, understood what
it was all about. He had regained completely his critical attitude, his
cool, intellectual poise. So this was the jail, and this was the fat
mediocrity of a sheriff who was to take care of him. Very good. He
would make the best of it. He wondered whether he was to be
searched—prisoners usually were—but he soon discovered that he was not
to be.
“That’s all right, Mr. Cowperwood,” said Jaspers, getting up. “I guess
I can make you comfortable, after a fashion. We’re not running a hotel
here, as you know”—he chuckled to himself—“but I guess I can make you
comfortable. John,” he called to a sleepy factotum, who appeared from
another room, rubbing his eyes, “is the key to Number Six down here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me have it.”
John disappeared and returned, while Steger explained to Cowperwood
that anything he wanted in the way of clothing, etc., could be brought
in. Steger himself would stop round next morning and confer with him,
as would any of the members of Cowperwood’s family whom he wished to
see. Cowperwood immediately explained to his father his desire for as
little of this as possible. Joseph or Edward might come in the morning
and bring a grip full of underwear, etc.; but as for the others, let
them wait until he got out or had to remain permanently. He did think
of writing Aileen, cautioning her to do nothing; but the sheriff now
beckoned, and he quietly followed. Accompanied by his father and
Steger, he ascended to his new room.
It was a simple, white-walled chamber fifteen by twenty feet in size,
rather high-ceiled, supplied with a high-backed, yellow wooden bed, a
yellow bureau, a small imitation-cherry table, three very ordinary
cane-seated chairs with carved hickory-rod backs, cherry-stained also,
and a wash-stand of yellow-stained wood to match the bed, containing a
washbasin, a pitcher, a soap-dish, uncovered, and a small, cheap,
pink-flowered tooth and shaving brush mug, which did not match the
other ware and which probably cost ten cents. The value of this room to
Sheriff Jaspers was what he could get for it in cases like
this—twenty-five to thirty-five dollars a week. Cowperwood would pay
thirty-five.
Cowperwood walked briskly to the window, which gave out on the lawn in
front, now embedded in snow, and said he thought this was all right.
Both his father and Steger were willing and anxious to confer with him
for hours, if he wished; but there was nothing to say. He did not wish
to talk.
“Let Ed bring in some fresh linen in the morning and a couple of suits
of clothes, and I will be all right. George can get my things
together.” He was referring to a family servant who acted as valet and
in other capacities. “Tell Lillian not to worry. I’m all right. I’d
rather she would not come here so long as I’m going to be out in five
days. If I’m not, it will be time enough then. Kiss the kids for me.”
And he smiled good-naturedly.
After his unfulfilled predictions in regard to the result of this
preliminary trial Steger was almost afraid to suggest confidently what
the State Supreme Court would or would not do; but he had to say
something.
“I don’t think you need worry about what the outcome of my appeal will
be, Frank. I’ll get a certificate of reasonable doubt, and that’s as
good as a stay of two months, perhaps longer. I don’t suppose the bail
will be more than thirty thousand dollars at the outside. You’ll be out
again in five or six days, whatever happens.”
Cowperwood said that he hoped so, and suggested that they drop matters
for the night. After a few fruitless parleys his father and Steger
finally said good night, leaving him to his own private reflections. He
was tired, however, and throwing off his clothes, tucked himself in his
mediocre bed, and was soon fast asleep.