The Greatest Works of Arthur Cheney Train (Illustrated Edition). Arthur Cheney Train
from under his shaggy eyebrows. A hard-boiled bunch, those importers, civil engineers, bankers, accountants, manufacturers and retired merchants. That Prussian-necked foreman, with his veined red face and waxed mustaches, was ready to convict already! The only countenance in which he could read a trace of sympathy was that of No. 7, a good-natured-looking man with a close-cropped mustache—“T. Jefferson Lee, landscape gardener.”
“There’s only one way to try this case, Bonnie,” whispered Mr. Tutt. “I’ve got to turn this courtroom into a monkey house. If I can get Babson’s goat and make O’Brion mad enough, I’ll have a fighting chance; otherwise not! Leave me absolutely alone. I’ve got to be a feeble old man struggling for justice against the irresistible forces of the law.”
“I get you, boss,” replied his henchman. “I’ll be sitting back there with the boys if you want me.”
Judge Babson tapped with his gavel, and O’Brion arose to make his opening speech. The jury, giving him their strict attention, were manifestly impressed. Brick by brick, the prosecution built up the wall of evidence that was to entomb the defendant. His witnesses more than substantiated his statement of what he intended to prove. Five testified that, from across the street they had heard a report and seen a flash at Halloran’s right side; three more swore to a quarrel between him and Kelly a month before the shooting; Judge Fitzpatrick that he had issued a pistol permit to Halloran; and two police officers that they had arrested him in his tracks and found a revolver about fifty feet down the alley, where he might easily have thrown it.
“I offer the gun in evidence,” said O’Brion, holding it up for the inspection of the jury.
“I object to its admission,” countered Mr. Tutt firmly, “without evidence that it belonged to my client.”
“That is a matter for the defense. You are free to prove that it is not Halloran’s gun, if you can do so.”
“Why not be fair for once, Mr. O’Brion?” the old man twitted him. “You know perfectly well that we have no resources to conduct an adequate investigation, whereas you have the entire detective force at your disposal. If this gun belongs to my client, it would seem up to you to prove it. I further object that the defendant has not been given time in which to prepare for trial. It would take us weeks, perhaps months, to trace the purchase of that pistol. This homicide was committed less than a fortnight ago. The indictment was returned the next day. The defendant was forced to plead ‘Not guilty’ forty-eight hours later. And here he is on trial! It is an exhibition of the most unseemly and unjust haste. I protest.”
Judge Babson tapped with his gavel.
“That will do! I shall admit the pistol in evidence. Mark it ‘People’s Exhibit A.’ Either side may argue as it sees fit upon the lack of evidence as to ownership.”
“And I except,” answered Mr. Tutt.
“The People rest,” announced O’Brion, glad at last to be through with his side of the case, for Mr. Tutt had been at him like a gadfly from the start.
“By cripes!” muttered Captain Gallagher. “If the old boy beats this, he’ll be a wonder!”
“Proceed with the defense.”
Mr. Tutt arose.
“Vance, take the stand.”
Halloran, realizing the odds against him, sat there, sullen and defiant, after taking the oath—a hopeless figure.
“You are the defendant in this action?”
“Sure I am.”
“Did you kill Michael Kelly?”
“I did not!”
“Did you have any motive to kill him?”
“No.”
“Where were you going when you heard this shot beside you?”
“I was on me way home to supper. It was the first anniversary of our wedding and——”
“One moment! I move the last part of the answer be stricken out!” interposed O’Brion. “It is irrelevant and immaterial.”
“Strike it out!” directed Babson, on the theory that the answer was technically unresponsive, although O’Brion had carelessly failed to base his objection on that ground.
It was the chance for which Mr. Tutt had been waiting, and he took it.
“Can it be irrelevant or immaterial that the defendant was on his way to celebrate his wedding anniversary when the alleged murder was committed?” he demanded, in a tone of indignation. “Would not any reasonable human being question whether the defendant would select that particular moment to commit a murder? I ask that, in fairness to the defendant, he be allowed to answer my question.”
“I have ruled upon the objection. You may have an exception,” replied Babson, doing the best he could.
Mr. Tutt fingered a piece of paper.
“I offer in evidence the certificate of marriage of Vance Halloran and Nora O’Conner, dated April 21, 1936.”
O’Brion sprang to his feet.
“Object!”
“Excluded!”
“Exception!”
Tit-tat-Tutt! It was beginning to get messy. O’Brion had stated no ground of objection, and Babson, who was easily confused, supposed vaguely that he was adhering to a ruling he had, in fact, never made.
The jury were puzzled. They could not know either that O’Brion, realizing the point to be the only dangerous feature of the defense, had determined that the evidence must be kept out, even at the risk of a reversal in the higher courts, or that the dignified Babson was in reality a dunderhead.
Mr. Tutt waved the certificate threateningly at the judge.
“I cannot believe that Your Honor, after proper consideration, will exclude so vital a bit of testimony. I——”
His Honor flushed uncomfortably.
“I shall not change my ruling! I do not care to hear further argument.”
“But I have a right to be heard!” challenged Mr. Tutt. “I am responsible for the life of this defendant! I insist——”
Bang! went the gavel. “Sit down, sir!”
The old lawyer genuflected slightly, then bobbed up again.
“I rise to make an objection!”
“Your objection is overruled! Sit down!”
“I desire to state the grounds of my objection.”
“I do not care to hear them,” snapped Babson, making his first tactical slip. “I shall not give you the opportunity to make speeches out of order, for their effect upon the jury.”
Mr. Tutt drew himself up to his full height.
“I object to Your Honor’s remarks as prejudicial and uncalled for!” he thundered.
“Sit down, sir!”
“I also object to your Honor’s tone and manner as hostile and showing obvious bias. This isn’t a Nazi court!”
Bang! Bang! “Sit down! Unless you wish to be committed for contempt!”
Mr. Tutt looked toward the jury and shrugged hopelessly. No. 7 had slightly raised his eyebrows.
“I have no desire to be committed for contempt, but whatever course Your Honor sees fit to pursue, I must protect my client. I except to Your Honor’s ruling and to Your Honor’s threats!”
He sat down, leaving poor Babson in a dither of rage. A judge had to protect the dignity of his own court, didn’t he? He couldn’t let himself be insulted, could he?
From his seat