Carter Watson was genuinely angry. Not only had he been wantonly
assaulted, badly battered, and arrested, but the morning papers without
exception came out with lurid accounts of his drunken brawl with the
proprietor of the notorious Vendome. Not one accurate or truthful line
was published. Patsy Horan and his satellites described the battle in
detail. The one incontestable thing was that Carter Watson had been
drunk. Thrice he had been thrown out of the place and into the gutter,
and thrice he had come back, breathing blood and fire and announcing
that he was going to clean out the place. “EMINENT SOCIOLOGIST JAGGED
AND JUGGED,” was the first head-line he read, on the front page,
accompanied by a large portrait of himself. Other headlines were:
“CARTER WATSON ASPIRED TO CHAMPIONSHIP HONORS”; “CARTER WATSON GETS
HIS”; “NOTED SOCIOLOGIST ATTEMPTS TO CLEAN OUT A TENDERLOIN CAFE”; and
“CARTER WATSON KNOCKED OUT BY PATSY HORAN IN THREE ROUNDS.”
At the police court, next morning, under bail, appeared Carter Watson
to answer the complaint of the People Versus Carter Watson, for
the latter's assault and battery on one Patsy Horan. But first, the
Prosecuting Attorney, who was paid to prosecute all offenders against
the People, drew him aside and talked with him privately.
“Why not let it drop!” said the Prosecuting Attorney. “I tell you what
you do, Mr. Watson: Shake hands with Mr. Horan and make it up, and we'll
drop the case right here. A word to the Judge, and the case against you
will be dismissed.”
“But I don't want it dismissed,” was the answer. “Your office being what
it is, you should be prosecuting me instead of asking me to make up with
this--this fellow.”
“Oh, I'll prosecute you all right,” retorted the Prosecuting Attorney.
“Also you will have to prosecute this Patsy Horan,” Watson advised; “for
I shall now have him arrested for assault and battery.”
“You'd better shake and make up,” the Prosecuting Attorney repeated, and
this time there was almost a threat in his voice.
The trials of both men were set for a week later, on the same morning,
in Police Judge Witberg's court.
“You have no chance,” Watson was told by an old friend of his boyhood,
the retired manager of the biggest paper in the city. “Everybody knows
you were beaten up by this man. His reputation is most unsavory. But it
won't help you in the least. Both cases will be dismissed. This will be
because you are you. Any ordinary man would be convicted.”
“But I do not understand,” objected the perplexed sociologist. “Without
warning I was attacked by this man; and badly beaten. I did not strike a
blow. I--”
“That has nothing to do with it,” the other cut him off.
“Then what is there that has anything to do with it?”
“I'll tell you. You are now up against the local police and political
machine. Who are you? You are not even a legal resident in this town.
You live up in the country. You haven't a vote of your own here. Much
less do you swing any votes. This dive proprietor swings a string of
votes in his precincts--a mighty long string.”
“Do you mean to tell me that this Judge Witberg will violate the
sacredness of his office and oath by letting this brute off?” Watson
demanded.
“Watch him,” was the grim reply. “Oh, he'll do it nicely enough. He will
give an extra-legal, extra-judicial decision, abounding in every word in
the dictionary that stands for fairness and right.”
“But there are the newspapers,” Watson cried.
“They are not fighting the administration at present. They'll give it to
you hard. You see what they have already done to you.”
“Then these snips of boys on the police detail won't write the truth?”
“They will write something so near like the truth that the public will
believe it. They write their stories under instruction, you know. They
have their orders to twist and color, and there won't be much left of
you when they get done. Better drop the whole thing right now. You are
in bad.”
“But the trials are set.”
“Give the word and they'll drop them now. A man can't fight a machine
unless he has a machine behind him.”