The Empty Sack Part 54

He reminded the jury that the law was not on trial; society was not on trial; the industrial experience of one Josiah Follett was not a feature in the case. They must not allow the issue to be confused by the social arguments which befogged so many of the questions of the day. It was quite possible that the world was not as perfect as it might be; it was even possible that the law was not the most perfect law that could be pa.s.sed. But these were considerations into which they could not enter.

In merely approaching them, they would lose their way. The law as it stands is the voice of the People as it is; and the only questions before them were, first, whether or not the accused had broken that law, and second, if he had broken it, to what degree. In answering these questions, they must limit themselves to the bare facts of the charge.

With the prisoner's temptations they had nothing to do, except in so far as they tended to create intent. The consequences to his person, whether in the way of liberty or of the last penalty, were no concern of others.

Justice in itself, viewed as justice in the abstract, was no concern of theirs. They were not, however, to burden their consciences with the fear that the accused was thus deprived of protection. The duty of a jury was not protection, but discernment. The administration of the law was far too big and complex a thing for any one body of men to deal with. Justice having many aspects, the law had as many departments.

Protection was in other hands than theirs. The application of justice pure and simple, involving punishment for guilt without excluding pity for the provocation, was duly guaranteed by the methods of the state.

They would find their task simplified by dismissing all such hesitations from their minds and confining themselves to the definite question which he repeated. Had the prisoner at the bar broken the existing law, and if he had so broken it, to what degree?

Having explained the difference between manslaughter and murder, as well as between first-degree murder and second, he admitted that, in case the accused was found guilty, there was much to indicate the second degree rather than the first. There was, however, one d.a.m.ning fact. The hand that had shot Peter Flynn went on at once to shoot William Jackman. The killing of one man might have been an accident. If not an accident, it might still have mitigating features. But for the murderer of a first man to proceed at once to become the murderer of a second indicated a planned and deliberate intent....

When the court had adjourned and the jury had retired to consider their verdict, one of the guards unlocked the cage and Teddy was taken down by a corkscrew staircase to a room immediately below. It was a small room, lighted by one feeble bulb, and aired from an air shaft. A table and two chairs stood in the middle of the room; a shiny, well-worn bench was fixed to one of the walls. The guards took the chairs; Teddy sat down on the bench. One of the guards cut off a piece of tobacco and put it in his mouth; the other lighted a cheap cigar. Taking another from an upper waistcoat pocket, he held it out toward Teddy.

"Have a smoke, young fella?"

Teddy shook his head. He was hardly aware of being addressed. Nothing else was said to him, and the guards, almost silently, began a game of cards. This waiting with prisoners for verdicts was always a tedious affair, and one to be got through patiently.

To Teddy, it was not so much tedious as it was unreal. He sat with arms folded, his head sunk, and the foot of the leg which was thrown across the other leg kicking outward mechanically. Except for a rare grunted remark between the players, there was no sound but the slap of the cards on the table and the scooping in of the tricks.

After nearly half an hour the door opened and Bob Collingham came in with a basket containing sandwiches and a thermos bottle of hot coffee.

With a word of explanation to the guards, he was allowed to take his seat beside the prisoner.

"h.e.l.lo, old sport! Must be relieved that it's so soon going to be over.

Brought you something to eat."

With this introduction, they took up commonplace ground as if it was a commonplace occasion. Teddy asked after his mother and sisters; Bob gave him the family news. Of the trial they said nothing. Of what they were waiting for no more was said than that Bob had persuaded Jennie and Gussie to go home, promising to come and tell them the decision. Lizzie and Gladys had not appeared in the courtroom at all. Of all this Teddy approved as he munched his sandwiches stolidly.

The supply of food and coffee being large, they invited the guards to share with them. The invitation was accepted, the officers suspending their game. The talk became friendly, commenting on the judge's wig and the gla.s.s eye of the foreman of the jury, but not touching directly on the trial. These subjects, as well as the supply of sandwiches, exhausted, the guards returned to their game, the two young men being left to themselves.

For the most part they sat in silence-a silence as nearly cheerful as the circ.u.mstances permitted.

"Don't worry about me, Bob," Teddy murmured once. "I'm not going to care much whichever way it is. Honest to G.o.d! I don't say I wouldn't like it if they sent me back home; but if they don't-"

Allowing his companion to finish the sentence for himself, he lapsed into silence again.

Another time, speaking as if subterranean thought came for a moment to the surface, he said:

"I liked what you said about hardness-and pluck. I've been practicing away on them both-making myself tough inside. Funny how you can, isn't it? You think at first that, because you're soft, you've got to be soft; but you find out that you're just what you like to make yourself. That's a great line, Bob, '_Thou therefore endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ._' You watch," he added, with a tremulous smile, "and you'll see me doing it."

"All right, old boy, I'll watch, but we'll all be doing it with you.

We're practicing, too. Jennie and the girls are regular bricks, and, of course, your mother-"

He smiled again.

"Good old ma! She sure is the best ever. I'd be sorrier for her than I am if I didn't feel certain that if-that if I go she won't wait long after me." He swung away from this aspect of his thought to a new one.

"Say, Bob, do you suppose it's a sign that G.o.d really is with me-gump as I am!-that he's sent you to take ma and the girls off my hands-_you_ know-and make my mind easy?"

They discussed those happenings which might reasonably be held to be signs of Divine good intention, after which silence fell again. The guards grunted or yawned; the cards were slapped on the table; the tricks were pulled in with the scratching of paper against wood. An hour went by; another hour, and then another. In spite of his efforts to make himself hard, Teddy felt the tension. Having accidentally touched Bob's hand, he grasped it with a clutch like a vise. He was still clutching it when a messenger came to the door to say that the jury was about to render their verdict and the prisoner must come back into court.

Bob climbed the corkscrew first. A guard followed him, then Teddy, then the other guard. It was after seven in the evening. The courtroom, relatively empty, had a sickly look, under crude electric lighting. But half of the spectators had come back, and only those officials and lawyers who were obliged to be in their places. All the reporters were there, watching for every shade in Teddy's face and seeing more than he expressed.

Bob managed to pa.s.s in front of the cage.

"Remember, Teddy-hardness is the big word."

"Sure thing!" Teddy whispered back.

The jury filed in. The judge took his place. Teddy was ordered to stand up. He stood very straight, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. In all that met the eye he was a st.u.r.dy, stocky young man, pleasing to look at, and with no suggestion of the criminal. His face was grave with a gravity beyond that of death, but he showed no sign of nervousness.

If anyone showed nervousness it was the foreman of the jury, a good-natured fish dealer, with a drooping reddish mustache, who had never expected to be in this situation. When asked if the jury had arrived at a verdict his voice trembled as he answered:

"We have."

"What is your verdict?"

"We find the accused guilty of murder."

"Of murder in the first or the second degree?"

"In the first."

That was all. Bob wheeled round toward Teddy, who smiled courageously.

"It's all right, Bob," he whispered, as their hands met over the rail of the cage. "I've got the right line on it. It's my medicine, and I know how to take it. Keep ma and the girls from worrying, and I can go straight through with it."

[Ill.u.s.tration: _"ALL RIGHT, MA! I'M READY!"_]

It was all there was time for. They had not noticed that Stenhouse had said something about appeal, and the judge something about sentence.

Everyone was leaving. Stenhouse came to shake hands with his client and tell him that the game wasn't up yet. The boy thanked him. The cage was unlocked, and once more Teddy, with a guard in front and a guard following after him, went down the corkscrew stair.

CHAPTER XXVIII

"What I don't understand, Bob," Collingham said, with faint indignation in his tone, "is whether you're a married man or not."

"I'm a married man, father, all right."

"Then why don't you live like a married man? I suppose you know that people are saying all sorts of things."

Bob considered the simplest way in which to put his case. It was the afternoon of the day following the end of Teddy's trial, and his father was giving him a lift homeward from the bank. It being winter, dark was already closing in, and though they were out of the city, great arc-lights were still strung along the roadways, which were otherwise lighted by flashes from hundreds of motor cars.

"I've never said anything about this before," the father resumed, before Bob had found the right words, "because we'd all agreed-your mother, Edith, and myself-that we wouldn't hamper you with questions about it while you were busy with something else. But now that that's over-"

"Part of it is over, but only part of it. We've a long road to travel yet."

"If the appeal is denied, as I expect it will be, you'll have to let me in on the application to the Governor for clemency. I think I'd have some influence there."

"Thanks, dad. That'll be a help." He asked, after further thinking, "Should you like me to live as a married man-considering who it is I've married?"