"I move the case of the People against Ludovico Candido, indicted for
murder," announced the assistant district attorney, addressing the
court.
"Bring up Candido," shouted the captain to one of the attendants.
"Where's his lawyer?" inquired the clerk, glancing along the benches.
"I haven't seen him since morning," answered the assistant.
"Send to Mr. Fellini's office, at once," ordered the judge impatiently.
"He has no business to delay the court."
At this moment the door in the rear of the room opened to admit a small
dusty-looking Italian, stumbling along in advance of a tall, muscular
policeman, and clutching nervously in both hands a battered,
brick-stained felt hat. He was an emaciated, gaunt little fellow of
about forty-five, with a thin mustache, pointed nose, and wild, rapidly
shifting brown eyes. Under his open coat a red undershirt, unbuttoned at
the neck, disclosed his sinewy chest. The nondescript trousers, which
reached only to his ankles, terminated in huge, formless, machine-made
shoes, the original color of which had entirely disappeared in favor of
a dull whitish-green streaked with red.
He muttered beneath his breath as he saw the throng of strange faces,
not knowing what was to happen next; but the attendant shoved him on
without ceremony. Five years in America had taught him only twenty words
of English, and for aught that he could tell this might well be the
place of public execution. The rough, imperious lawyer who had consented
to take his case on the instalment plan had not been to see him in over
a week. This was because Maria had spent the first instalment on a
little feast of chicken which she had cooked and brought to the Tombs in
a newspaper for her husband, instead of taking the money to the
attorney's office.
As Candido was half dragged, half pushed to the bar, a plump,
white-skinned, clean-shaven man in a surtout entered the court room and
thrust his way forward. Suddenly the prisoner uttered a choking cry and
sank trembling to his knees, his locked hands raised to the judge in
piteous appeal, while the attendants strove unsuccessfully to lift him
to his feet.
"Madonna!" he cried in his native tongue. "O Madonna! I confess that I
took the life of Beppe! _Salvatemi!_"
The begoggled, piebald-bearded interpreter who had taken his stand
beside the defendant began to translate in a dramatic, stilted
bellowing.
"He says: 'O Madonna, I confess----'"
"Here! Stop him! Stop that! Tell him to keep still. That won't do,"
interposed the assistant.
The interpreter gesticulated at the Italian, chattering volubly the
while. Candido, staring like a frightened animal, allowed himself to be
placed upon his feet, and stood clinging to the rail.
"Are you ready to proceed to trial?" sternly asked the court of the
plump man in the surtout.
"I am not, your honor," replied the man. "I have not been paid."