“Was the gun yours?”
“I told you it wasn’t!”
“Do you own one?”
Halloran hesitated. “No-o. Not now. Last year, with all them gangsters around, I did get a permit from Judge Fitzpatrick to carry one.”
“What became of it?”
“I toted it awhile, but it was too heavy and I left it in the flat. One night we came home late and found the door unlatched. A sneak thief had cleaned out the place and taken Nora’s pocketbook, with six dollars in it, and a bracelet. Next day I missed the gun. It’s a tough break all right!”
Mr. Tutt’s eyes probed Halloran’s. “Did you tell your wife you had a revolver?”
“I didn’t want to frighten her.”
“So you didn’t mention the loss of it either?”
Halloran shook his head.
“Looks bad for me, don’t it, counselor?”
Mr. Tutt regarded him thoughtfully.
“If you didn’t shoot Mike Kelly, you’re in the toughest jam I’ve ever heard of,” he said.
Ten minutes later, Mr. Tutt entered O’Brion’s office. “Good afternoon,” he said, politely removing his stovepipe hat. “I’ve come to talk to you about the Halloran case.”
“Then you’re wasting your time! This bird has got to go to the bat, prontissimo!”
“But why the hurry? A little delay might be advantageous, even to the prosecution. You might prove that the defendant owned the pistol.”
“He could have used it even if he didn’t own it,” retorted the assistant district attorney.
“True, but it would vastly strengthen your case to show that he did. On the other hand, it would seem only fair to give us a chance to prove that he didn’t.”
O’Brion leaned back.
“This fellow is guilty as hell,” he declared. “You know it, I know it, everyone knows it. The electrodes are on him already. There’s no sense fooling around about the pistol.”
“But, Mr. O’Brion,” protested the old man, “this is a case of circumstantial evidence. Facts apparently inconsequential may prove to have great significance. Do give me reasonable time. You have no excuse for railroading this defendant.”
“There’s the most excellent excuse that for the protection of society all murderers ought to be convicted as soon as possible.”
“Not to mention the additional—and less worthy—one that you want to even up the score between us,” commented Mr. Tutt bitterly. “I know that you suggested my assignment to this case. And I know the reason why.”
The prosecutor grinned. “You do me a grave injustice.” He scrunched out his cigarette. “No! Forget it. The sooner he goes to the chair the better.”
“But aren’t you willing to give me a chance for this man’s life? Think of what it means to his wife and child.”
“Don’t appeal to my better nature, because I haven’t any,” replied O’Brion sarcastically.
“I’m glad you appreciate the fact.” Mr. Tutt’s lips quivered. “All right! Go ahead. There are more ways than one to fight a case—as you may learn, to your surprise. Good day, sir.”
The old lawyer clapped on his hat, turned and walked out.
“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” he muttered as he paused outside to light a stogie. “If I do find a way to defend this case, I’ll be more surprised than he is!”
That O’Brion was sincere in his belief in Halloran’s guilt Mr. Tutt did not for an instant doubt. The difficulty was that he was so firmly convinced of it that he would have regarded any counter opinion on the part of a jury as a gross miscarriage of justice. He was one of those now fortunately rare prosecutors who allow their prejudices to overcome their scruples. He not only disliked but distrusted Mr. Tutt, who felt the same way, even more strongly, about him. The old lawyer did not object to a hard fight; some of his best friends had been on the district attorney’s staff. If an honest prosecutor occasionally overstepped the mark, he was ready to forgive him. But Mr. Tutt knew that once the legal steam roller had started, it would crush Halloran flat. And in this instance, in spite of his most urgent appeals for delay, it did start with the ordering of a special jury and the trial being set within the fortnight.
“Fat chance we’ve got!” growled Bonnie Doon, as he and the old man bucked the crowd at the door of the courtroom on the day of the trial.... “What’s the row here, Captain Gallagher?”
“All these boys are afther tryin’ to get in. I tell ’em they’re too young. ’Tis agin the rules!”
Mr. Tutt pushed forward.
“Let me look at ’em!... Hello, Iky!... They’re Okay, Gallagher—friends of mine.”
“All right, if you say so, sor.”
He opened the door and the Halloran Club surged through in full force.
O’Brion, lounging inside the rail, instantly spied them.
“What are all those boys doing in here?” he demanded. “Put ’em out.”
“I should greatly appreciate your allowing them to remain,” pleaded Mr. Tutt. “They’re friends of the defendant.”
“This isn’t a ball game,” returned the prosecutor.... “Throw ’em out, Gallagher.”
While the officer obediently herded the Halloran Club into the corridor, Mr. Tutt muttered an order to Bonnie Doon; then, as his henchman hurried out, he made his way inside the enclosure and took his seat at the counsel table. Shortly thereafter there was another uproar outside; the door opened and the Halloran Club filed in again. O’Brion jumped up.
“I told you to keep those boys out! I intend to have my orders obeyed!”
Gallagher exhibited a bundle of paper slips.
“They’ve all got subpoenas, chief.”
“Subpoenas!”
“Character witnesses for the defendant,” explained the old lawyer.
“Ptah!” grunted O’Brion, realizing that he had been outmaneuvered at the starting line.
“Sit down, boys,” beamed Mr. Tutt.... “Officer, will you please put these witnesses on those two front benches, where they will be easily accessible?”
Almost at once thereafter, Halloran himself was brought in; Judge Babson, gray-haired and benign, entered in his silken robes and took his place on the dais, and the case was called.
“Impanel a jury,” directed His Honor.... “Mr. Tutt, if you desire to examine any juryman upon the voir dire, you must do so before he is sworn.”
The trial was on.
II
The talesmen had been drawn from what Tutt & Tutt sardonically referred to as The Standing Army of the Gibbet—that is to say, from a panel composed entirely of experienced and substantial citizens, wise to all the tricks practiced at the criminal bar since the days of Howe & Hummel down through those of Big Bill Fallon; a proper jury, who respected the sworn officers of the law, detested crime, distrusted all defense attorneys, and would do their duty as they saw it, irrespective of the consequences; a jury who, if necessary, would convict their own mothers; a jury, in short, to make any prosecutor’s heart sing for joy.
Mr.