Part 54 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+ny, 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?”