“Let me ask a single question, gentlemen. How many of you honestly think this defendant had a fair trial?”
No one spoke for a full quarter minute.
“Well,” finally admitted one juror, “they did seem to be givin’ him the bum’s rush!”
“Suppose you got the same kind of bum’s rush?”
“That’s right too!”
“The whole trial was rotten!” declared No. 7 heatedly. “If men like that are to administer the laws, no one of us is safe! Why, they wouldn’t let Mr. Tutt show it was Halloran’s wedding day! No feller in God’s world would choose that anniversary to kill a man! And they never even tried to pin the gun on him! If it was his, why didn’t they prove it? What’s the detective bureau for, anyhow? They had twenty thousand cops and no need to hurry!”
“You said something!” came from across the table.
“As for O’Brion,” continued No. 7, “did you hear the things he said about Halloran’s wife and baby? He’d do anything to get a conviction! Use any kind of pressure! Thomas Jefferson did say that rebellion to tyrants was obedience to God!”
“I don’t think O’Brion’s so hot!” retorted the foreman. “But that don’t mean we shouldn’t convict Halloran. He’s guilty as hell!”
“Only if you take O’Brion’s word for it!” commented someone. “But I wouldn’t believe that bastard under oath—or Babson, either! Imagine him refusin’ to charge the Declaration of Independence!”
“Gosh! Was that the Declaration of Independence?” exclaimed a fat man who was a little hard of hearing.
“O’Brion’s a louse, all right!” remarked another with feeling.
“That don’t make Halloran any less guilty, does it?” reiterated the foreman. “It’s up to us to protect society!”
At that instant through the open windows came, from the street below, the shrill cry of a newsboy: “Extry! Extry! Halloran Convicted of Murder! Jury Finds Murderer Guilty! Extry!” Others joined the chorus:
“Extry! Extry!”
“Vance Halloran Guilty of Murder in the First Degree!”
“Jury Convicts Halloran in Record Time!”
“Listen!” said No. 7. “How about that? Doesn’t it prove exactly what I say? O’Brion’s trying to force us to convict by giving out word that we’ve agreed already!”
A change had come over the face of the foreman. For a moment he seemed to be on the verge of apoplexy. He grew red, his jaw stiffened and his mustaches bristled.
“That settles it for me, by heck!” he declared. “Thomas Jefferson was right! If you fellows will back me, I’ll vote for an acquittal.”
“We will!” they chorused.
“How say you? Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?” inquired the clerk as they shuffled in and lined up at the rail.
“Not guilty,” stoutly answered the foreman.
Babson and O’Brion stared at each other. An acquittal? It was inconceivable!
“Strike the names of these men from the rolls of the Special Jury!” ordered His Honor. “They’re a disgrace to the administration of justice! The defendant is discharged! Adjourn court until tomorrow morning!”
The foreman and No. 7 stalked defiantly out of the courtroom, side by side. Pausing to light their cigarettes by one of the big pillars in the rotunda, they observed Bonnie Doon hurriedly approaching his chief.
“Excuse me, Mr. Tutt,” said he breathlessly. “Do you happen to have a dollar bill on you? I want to give the Halloran Club some ice-cream soda.”
Vance Halloran had been back on his truck for more than a month when Mr. Tutt, glancing over the paper, happened upon the following item:
Rochester, N. Y., June 5, 1937, Special to The New York Times: James Breslin, an escaped convict, wounded yesterday while resisting arrest, died last night in the Eastman Hospital after confessing various crimes. Among them was the shooting of Michael Kelly, who, he claimed, was responsible for his imprisonment. He had been unaware, he said, that Vance Halloran, truck driver for a New York evening paper, had been indicted and tried for the homicide until after the latter’s acquittal by a special jury.
“Well,” chuckled the old lawyer as he handed the paper to Bonnie Doon, “Jefferson was right—sometimes!”
Her Father’s House
Mr. John De Puyster Hepplewhite, chairman of the board of Home for Aged Gentlewomen, Inc., tapped upon his rosewood writing desk.
“The meeting will please come to order,” he said. “We are all of us busy men and I personally have but a few minutes to spare. I suppose we can dispense with reading the last minutes?... Very well; they stand approved.... Have you anything special to report, Mr. Gobbet?”
Mr. Gobbet, conscious that he dominated the situation, complacently twiddled his glasses.
“No, there’s nothing particularly on my mind at the moment. Everything seems to be going fine. We might have another special investigator. I know of an excellent man whom we can get for forty-five hundred a year. And the country staff needs a new automobile.”
Mr. Hepplewhite, whose social and artistic interests left him comparatively little time for philanthropy, always felt at a disadvantage with Gobbet. At the moment his mind was completely occupied with a contemplated $40,000 purchase of Ming porcelain. He now looked inquiringly at the two other gentlemen present, both of whom nodded without comment.
“Seems reasonable. It is so voted. Is there anything else?”
“Carson, my assistant, has been with me ten years,” went on Mr. Gobbet. “He gets only twelve thousand dollars a year. In view of our highly satisfactory financial condition—the treasurer’s report shows assets of over five million—would not a slight increase—say to fifteen thousand—be in order?”
“It doesn’t seem out of line to me,” concurred Mr. Hepplewhite. “Agreed?... So voted. Anything else? I fear I shall have to hurry along, gentlemen. The meeting stands adjourned.”
Stifled sobs awoke Grandma Benton. Poor Leila! She got up and went to the door leading to the hall. With her hand on the knob, she paused.
“It simply can’t be done, darling!” she heard Richard Bryant, the girl’s fiancé, saying. “What with my own grandmother and Auntie Bess living with us, I can only just stagger along as it is. Anyhow, I don’t want my wife to have to run an old ladies’ home!”
“All right, dear,” answered Leila bravely. “After all, we’re young and can afford to wait.”
“If you’re willing to, sweetheart. It’s a tough break for both of us. I hope you understand.”
“Oh, I do, Richard! I do!”
The outer door closed and his footsteps rattled down the stairs. Grandma stood motionless, her delicate profile silhouetted against the white wall. Her parents had said precisely the same thing fifty years ago. If only she had married Lawrence Pell instead of “waiting”! Could half a century have flown since they had stood together under the cedar of Lebanon on the terrace behind her father’s house and watched the moon come up across the East River? Could anyone afford to wait? Youth came but once!
There were no more sounds from the other side of the partition, and Grandma went back to bed. Strange, how she thought so much these