When Cowperwood reached the jail, Jaspers was there, glad to see him
but principally relieved to feel that nothing had happened to mar his
own reputation as a sheriff. Because of the urgency of court matters
generally, it was decided to depart for the courtroom at nine o’clock.
Eddie Zanders was once more delegated to see that Cowperwood was
brought safely before Judge Payderson and afterward taken to the
penitentiary. All of the papers in the case were put in his care to be
delivered to the warden.
“I suppose you know,” confided Sheriff Jaspers to Steger, “that Stener
is here. He ain’t got no money now, but I gave him a private room just
the same. I didn’t want to put a man like him in no cell.” Sheriff
Jaspers sympathized with Stener.
“That’s right. I’m glad to hear that,” replied Steger, smiling to
himself.
“I didn’t suppose from what I’ve heard that Mr. Cowperwood would want
to meet Stener here, so I’ve kept ’em apart. George just left a minute
ago with another deputy.”
“That’s good. That’s the way it ought to be,” replied Steger. He was
glad for Cowperwood’s sake that the sheriff had so much tact. Evidently
George and the sheriff were getting along in a very friendly way, for
all the former’s bitter troubles and lack of means.
The Cowperwood party walked, the distance not being great, and as they
did so they talked of rather simple things to avoid the more serious.
“Things aren’t going to be so bad,” Edward said to his father. “Steger
says the Governor is sure to pardon Stener in a year or less, and if he
does he’s bound to let Frank out too.”
Cowperwood, the elder, had heard this over and over, but he was never
tired of hearing it. It was like some simple croon with which babies
are hushed to sleep. The snow on the ground, which was enduring
remarkably well for this time of year, the fineness of the day, which
had started out to be clear and bright, the hope that the courtroom
might not be full, all held the attention of the father and his two
sons. Cowperwood, senior, even commented on some sparrows fighting over
a piece of bread, marveling how well they did in winter, solely to ease
his mind. Cowperwood, walking on ahead with Steger and Zanders, talked
of approaching court proceedings in connection with his business and
what ought to be done.
When they reached the court the same little pen in which Cowperwood had
awaited the verdict of his jury several months before was waiting to
receive him.
Cowperwood, senior, and his other sons sought places in the courtroom
proper. Eddie Zanders remained with his charge. Stener and a deputy by
the name of Wilkerson were in the room; but he and Cowperwood pretended
now not to see each other. Frank had no objection to talking to his
former associate, but he could see that Stener was diffident and
ashamed. So he let the situation pass without look or word of any kind.
After some three-quarters of an hour of dreary waiting the door leading
into the courtroom proper opened and a bailiff stepped in.
“All prisoners up for sentence,” he called.
There were six, all told, including Cowperwood and Stener. Two of them
were confederate housebreakers who had been caught red-handed at their
midnight task.
Another prisoner was no more and no less than a plain horse-thief, a
young man of twenty-six, who had been convicted by a jury of stealing a
grocer’s horse and selling it. The last man was a negro, a tall,
shambling, illiterate, nebulous-minded black, who had walked off with
an apparently discarded section of lead pipe which he had found in a
lumber-yard. His idea was to sell or trade it for a drink. He really
did not belong in this court at all; but, having been caught by an
undersized American watchman charged with the care of the property, and
having at first refused to plead guilty, not quite understanding what
was to be done with him, he had been perforce bound over to this court
for trial. Afterward he had changed his mind and admitted his guilt, so
he now had to come before Judge Payderson for sentence or dismissal.
The lower court before which he had originally been brought had lost
jurisdiction by binding him over to to higher court for trial. Eddie
Zanders, in his self-appointed position as guide and mentor to
Cowperwood, had confided nearly all of this data to him as he stood
waiting.
The courtroom was crowded. It was very humiliating to Cowperwood to
have to file in this way along the side aisle with these others,
followed by Stener, well dressed but sickly looking and disconsolate.
The negro, Charles Ackerman, was the first on the list.
“How is it this man comes before me?” asked Payderson, peevishly, when
he noted the value of the property Ackerman was supposed to have
stolen.
“Your honor,” the assistant district attorney explained, promptly,
“this man was before a lower court and refused, because he was drunk,
or something, to plead guilty. The lower court, because the complainant
would not forego the charge, was compelled to bind him over to this
court for trial. Since then he has changed his mind and has admitted
his guilt to the district attorney. He would not be brought before you
except we have no alternative. He has to be brought here now in order
to clear the calendar.”
Judge Payderson stared quizzically at the negro, who, obviously not
very much disturbed by this examination, was leaning comfortably on the
gate or bar before which the average criminal stood erect and
terrified. He had been before police-court magistrates before on one
charge and another—drunkenness, disorderly conduct, and the like—but
his whole attitude was one of shambling, lackadaisical, amusing
innocence.
“Well, Ackerman,” inquired his honor, severely, “did you or did you not
steal this piece of lead pipe as charged here—four dollars and eighty
cents’ worth?”
“Yassah, I did,” he began. “I tell you how it was, jedge. I was
a-comin’ along past dat lumber-yard one Saturday afternoon, and I
hadn’t been wuckin’, an’ I saw dat piece o’ pipe thoo de fence, lyin’
inside, and I jes’ reached thoo with a piece o’ boad I found dey and
pulled it over to me an’ tuck it. An’ aftahwahd dis Mistah Watchman
man”—he waved his hand oratorically toward the witness-chair, where, in
case the judge might wish to ask him some questions, the complainant
had taken his stand—“come around tuh where I live an’ accused me of
done takin’ it.”
“But you did take it, didn’t you?”
“Yassah, I done tuck it.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I traded it foh twenty-five cents.”
“You mean you sold it,” corrected his honor.
“Yassah, I done sold it.”
“Well, don’t you know it’s wrong to do anything like that? Didn’t you
know when you reached through that fence and pulled that pipe over to
you that you were stealing? Didn’t you?”
“Yassah, I knowed it was wrong,” replied Ackerman, sheepishly. “I didn’
think ’twuz stealin’ like zackly, but I done knowed it was wrong. I
done knowed I oughtn’ take it, I guess.”
“Of course you did. Of course you did. That’s just it. You knew you
were stealing, and still you took it. Has the man to whom this negro
sold the lead pipe been apprehended yet?” the judge inquired sharply of
the district attorney. “He should be, for he’s more guilty than this
negro, a receiver of stolen goods.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the assistant. “His case is before Judge Yawger.”
“Quite right. It should be,” replied Payderson, severely. “This matter
of receiving stolen property is one of the worst offenses, in my
judgment.”
He then turned his attention to Ackerman again. “Now, look here,
Ackerman,” he exclaimed, irritated at having to bother with such a
pretty case, “I want to say something to you, and I want you to pay
strict attention to me. Straighten up, there! Don’t lean on that gate!
You are in the presence of the law now.” Ackerman had sprawled himself
comfortably down on his elbows as he would have if he had been leaning
over a back-fence gate talking to some one, but he immediately drew
himself straight, still grinning foolishly and apologetically, when he
heard this. “You are not so dull but that you can understand what I am
going to say to you. The offense you have committed—stealing a piece of
lead pipe—is a crime. Do you hear me? A criminal offense—one that I
could punish you very severely for. I could send you to the
penitentiary for one year if I chose—the law says I may—one year at
hard labor for stealing a piece of lead pipe. Now, if you have any
sense you will pay strict attention to what I am going to tell you. I
am not going to send you to the penitentiary right now. I’m going to
wait a little while. I am going to sentence you to one year in the
penitentiary—one year. Do you understand?” Ackerman blanched a little
and licked his lips nervously. “And then I am going to suspend that
sentence—hold it over your head, so that if you are ever caught taking
anything else you will be punished for this offense and the next one
also at one and the same time. Do you understand that? Do you know what
I mean? Tell me. Do you?”
“Yessah! I does, sir,” replied the negro. “You’se gwine to let me go
now—tha’s it.”
The audience grinned, and his honor made a wry face to prevent his own
grim grin.
“I’m going to let you go only so long as you don’t steal anything
else,” he thundered. “The moment you steal anything else, back you come
to this court, and then you go to the penitentiary for a year and
whatever more time you deserve. Do you understand that? Now, I want you
to walk straight out of this court and behave yourself. Don’t ever
steal anything. Get something to do! Don’t steal, do you hear? Don’t
touch anything that doesn’t belong to you! Don’t come back here! If you
do, I’ll send you to the penitentiary, sure.”
“Yassah! No, sah, I won’t,” replied Ackerman, nervously. “I won’t take
nothin’ more that don’t belong tuh me.”
He shuffled away, after a moment, urged along by the guiding hand of a
bailiff, and was put safely outside the court, amid a mixture of smiles
and laughter over his simplicity and Payderson’s undue severity of
manner. But the next case was called and soon engrossed the interest of
the audience.
It was that of the two housebreakers whom Cowperwood had been and was
still studying with much curiosity. In all his life before he had never
witnessed a sentencing scene of any kind. He had never been in police
or criminal courts of any kind—rarely in any of the civil ones. He was
glad to see the negro go, and gave Payderson credit for having some
sense and sympathy—more than he had expected.
He wondered now whether by any chance Aileen was here. He had objected
to her coming, but she might have done so. She was, as a matter of
fact, in the extreme rear, pocketed in a crowd near the door, heavily
veiled, but present. She had not been able to resist the desire to know
quickly and surely her beloved’s fate—to be near him in his hour of
real suffering, as she thought. She was greatly angered at seeing him
brought in with a line of ordinary criminals and made to wait in this,
to her, shameful public manner, but she could not help admiring all the
more the dignity and superiority of his presence even here. He was not
even pale, as she saw, just the same firm, calm soul she had always
known him to be. If he could only see her now; if he would only look so
she could lift her veil and smile! He didn’t, though; he wouldn’t. He
didn’t want to see her here. But she would tell him all about it when
she saw him again just the same.
The two burglars were quickly disposed of by the judge, with a sentence
of one year each, and they were led away, uncertain, and apparently not
knowing what to think of their crime or their future.
When it came to Cowperwood’s turn to be called, his honor himself
stiffened and straightened up, for this was a different type of man and
could not be handled in the usual manner. He knew exactly what he was
going to say. When one of Mollenhauer’s agents, a close friend of
Butler’s, had suggested that five years for both Cowperwood and Stener
would be about right, he knew exactly what to do. “Frank Algernon
Cowperwood,” called the clerk.
Cowperwood stepped briskly forward, sorry for himself, ashamed of his
position in a way, but showing it neither in look nor manner. Payderson
eyed him as he had the others.
“Name?” asked the bailiff, for the benefit of the court stenographer.
“Frank Algernon Cowperwood.”
“Residence?”
“1937 Girard Avenue.”
“Occupation?”
“Banker and broker.”
Steger stood close beside him, very dignified, very forceful, ready to
make a final statement for the benefit of the court and the public when
the time should come. Aileen, from her position in the crowd near the
door, was for the first time in her life biting her fingers nervously
and there were great beads of perspiration on her brow. Cowperwood’s
father was tense with excitement and his two brothers looked quickly
away, doing their best to hide their fear and sorrow.
“Ever convicted before?”
“Never,” replied Steger for Cowperwood, quietly.
“Frank Algernon Cowperwood,” called the clerk, in his nasal, singsong
way, coming forward, “have you anything to say why judgment should not
now be pronounced upon you? If so, speak.”
Cowperwood started to say no, but Steger put up his hand.
“If the court pleases, my client, Mr. Cowperwood, the prisoner at the
bar, is neither guilty in his own estimation, nor in that of two-fifths
of the Pennsylvania State Supreme Court—the court of last resort in
this State,” he exclaimed, loudly and clearly, so that all might hear.
One of the interested listeners and spectators at this point was Edward
Malia Butler, who had just stepped in from another courtroom where he
had been talking to a judge. An obsequious court attendant had warned
him that Cowperwood was about to be sentenced. He had really come here
this morning in order not to miss this sentence, but he cloaked his
motive under the guise of another errand. He did not know that Aileen
was there, nor did he see her.
“As he himself testified at the time of his trial,” went on Steger,
“and as the evidence clearly showed, he was never more than an agent
for the gentleman whose offense was subsequently adjudicated by this
court; and as an agent he still maintains, and two-fifths of the State
Supreme Court agree with him, that he was strictly within his rights
and privileges in not having deposited the sixty thousand dollars’
worth of city loan certificates at the time, and in the manner which
the people, acting through the district attorney, complained that he
should have. My client is a man of rare financial ability. By the
various letters which have been submitted to your honor in his behalf,
you will see that he commands the respect and the sympathy of a large
majority of the most forceful and eminent men in his particular world.
He is a man of distinguished social standing and of notable
achievements. Only the most unheralded and the unkindest thrust of
fortune has brought him here before you today—a fire and its consequent
panic which involved a financial property of the most thorough and
stable character. In spite of the verdict of the jury and the decision
of three-fifths of the State Supreme Court, I maintain that my client
is not an embezzler, that he has not committed larceny, that he should
never have been convicted, and that he should not now be punished for
something of which he is not guilty.
“I trust that your honor will not misunderstand me or my motives when I
point out in this situation that what I have said is true. I do not
wish to cast any reflection on the integrity of the court, nor of any
court, nor of any of the processes of law. But I do condemn and deplore
the untoward chain of events which has built up a seeming situation,
not easily understood by the lay mind, and which has brought my
distinguished client within the purview of the law. I think it is but
fair that this should be finally and publicly stated here and now. I
ask that your honor be lenient, and that if you cannot conscientiously
dismiss this charge you will at least see that the facts, as I have
indicated them, are given due weight in the measure of the punishment
inflicted.”
Steger stepped back and Judge Payderson nodded, as much as to say he
had heard all the distinguished lawyer had to say, and would give it
such consideration as it deserved—no more. Then he turned to
Cowperwood, and, summoning all his judicial dignity to his aid, he
began:
“Frank Algernon Cowperwood, you have been convicted by a jury of your
own selection of the offense of larceny. The motion for a new trial,
made in your behalf by your learned counsel, has been carefully
considered and overruled, the majority of the court being entirely
satisfied with the propriety of the conviction, both upon the law and
the evidence. Your offense was one of more than usual gravity, the more
so that the large amount of money which you obtained belonged to the
city. And it was aggravated by the fact that you had in addition
thereto unlawfully used and converted to your own use several hundred
thousand dollars of the loan and money of the city. For such an offense
the maximum punishment affixed by the law is singularly merciful.
Nevertheless, the facts in connection with your hitherto distinguished
position, the circumstances under which your failure was brought about,
and the appeals of your numerous friends and financial associates, will
be given due consideration by this court. It is not unmindful of any
important fact in your career.” Payderson paused as if in doubt, though
he knew very well how he was about to proceed. He knew what his
superiors expected of him.
“If your case points no other moral,” he went on, after a moment,
toying with the briefs, “it will at least teach the lesson much needed
at the present time, that the treasury of the city is not to be invaded
and plundered with impunity under the thin disguise of a business
transaction, and that there is still a power in the law to vindicate
itself and to protect the public.
“The sentence of the court,” he added, solemnly, the while Cowperwood
gazed unmoved, “is, therefore, that you pay a fine of five thousand
dollars to the commonwealth for the use of the county, that you pay the
costs of prosecution, and that you undergo imprisonment in the State
Penitentiary for the Eastern District by separate or solitary
confinement at labor for a period of four years and three months, and
that you stand committed until this sentence is complied with.”
Cowperwood’s father, on hearing this, bowed his head to hide his tears.
Aileen bit her lower lip and clenched her hands to keep down her rage
and disappointment and tears. Four years and three months! That would
make a terrible gap in his life and hers. Still, she could wait. It was
better than eight or ten years, as she had feared it might be. Perhaps
now, once this was really over and he was in prison, the Governor would
pardon him.
The judge now moved to pick up the papers in connection with Stener’s
case, satisfied that he had given the financiers no chance to say he
had not given due heed to their plea in Cowperwood’s behalf and yet
certain that the politicians would be pleased that he had so nearly
given Cowperwood the maximum while appearing to have heeded the pleas
for mercy. Cowperwood saw through the trick at once, but it did not
disturb him. It struck him as rather weak and contemptible. A bailiff
came forward and started to hurry him away.
“Allow the prisoner to remain for a moment,” called the judge.
The name, of George W. Stener had been called by the clerk and
Cowperwood did not quite understand why he was being detained, but he
soon learned. It was that he might hear the opinion of the court in
connection with his copartner in crime. The latter’s record was taken.
Roger O’Mara, the Irish political lawyer who had been his counsel all
through his troubles, stood near him, but had nothing to say beyond
asking the judge to consider Stener’s previously honorable career.
“George W. Stener,” said his honor, while the audience, including
Cowperwood, listened attentively. “The motion for a new trial as well
as an arrest of judgment in your case having been overruled, it remains
for the court to impose such sentence as the nature of your offense
requires. I do not desire to add to the pain of your position by any
extended remarks of my own; but I cannot let the occasion pass without
expressing my emphatic condemnation of your offense. The misapplication
of public money has become the great crime of the age. If not promptly
and firmly checked, it will ultimately destroy our institutions. When a
republic becomes honeycombed with corruption its vitality is gone. It
must crumble upon the first pressure.
“In my opinion, the public is much to blame for your offense and others
of a similar character. Heretofore, official fraud has been regarded
with too much indifference. What we need is a higher and purer
political morality—a state of public opinion which would make the
improper use of public money a thing to be execrated. It was the lack
of this which made your offense possible. Beyond that I see nothing of
extenuation in your case.” Judge Payderson paused for emphasis. He was
coming to his finest flight, and he wanted it to sink in.
“The people had confided to you the care of their money,” he went on,
solemnly. “It was a high, a sacred trust. You should have guarded the
door of the treasury even as the cherubim protected the Garden of Eden,
and should have turned the flaming sword of impeccable honesty against
every one who approached it improperly. Your position as the
representative of a great community warranted that.
“In view of all the facts in your case the court can do no less than
impose a major penalty. The seventy-fourth section of the Criminal
Procedure Act provides that no convict shall be sentenced by the court
of this commonwealth to either of the penitentiaries thereof, for any
term which shall expire between the fifteenth of November and the
fifteenth day of February of any year, and this provision requires me
to abate three months from the maximum of time which I would affix in
your case—namely, five years. The sentence of the court is, therefore,
that you pay a fine of five thousand dollars to the commonwealth for
the use of the county”—Payderson knew well enough that Stener could
never pay that sum—“and that you undergo imprisonment in the State
Penitentiary for the Eastern District, by separate and solitary
confinement at labor, for the period of four years and nine months, and
that you stand committed until this sentence is complied with.” He laid
down the briefs and rubbed his chin reflectively while both Cowperwood
and Stener were hurried out. Butler was the first to leave after the
sentence—quite satisfied. Seeing that all was over so far as she was
concerned, Aileen stole quickly out; and after her, in a few moments,
Cowperwood’s father and brothers. They were to await him outside and go
with him to the penitentiary. The remaining members of the family were
at home eagerly awaiting intelligence of the morning’s work, and Joseph
Cowperwood was at once despatched to tell them.
The day had now become cloudy, lowery, and it looked as if there might
be snow. Eddie Zanders, who had been given all the papers in the case,
announced that there was no need to return to the county jail. In
consequence the five of them—Zanders, Steger, Cowperwood, his father,
and Edward—got into a street-car which ran to within a few blocks of
the prison. Within half an hour they were at the gates of the Eastern
Penitentiary.