It is doubtful if any very convincing arguments in favor of retaining the grand jury for the purpose of indicting ordinary offenders can be advanced. That it should be continued for the purposes of investigation, with power of indictment, to be summoned when the need thereof arises, is indisputable. But the original necessity for the grand jury has disappeared with the onward march of the centuries.[26]In early days, when the influence of the crown threatened the liberties of the English freeman, and when judges and magistrates owed their positions to royal favor,it was often difficult if not impossible to secure the punishment of a criminal if he happened to be a retainer or under the protection of those in power. So, too, the defenceless subject might be accused of crime by an influential person and haled to the bar upon a baseless and malicious charge. Some barrier was needed between the powerful and the weak, and some tribunal before which the weak could accuse the powerful of their wrongs. This was supplied by the grand jury, which, ever changing its members and deliberating in secret, seemed well calculated to safeguard the people's liberties. But at present we need no such protection against a government of and by the people, and indeed such a body, deliberating secretly and hearing the evidence against an accused person without giving him the opportunity to be heard, seems strangely out of harmony with the spirit of our institutions.
To-day, the grand jury, initiating a proceeding against a citizen who may be ignorant that he is even under suspicion, may be led to accuse him of some foul crime upon the mereex partestatement of malicious witnesses, without giving him an opportunity to explain or contradict the evidence. The mere charge of crime is often enough to ruin a man forever. The argument that a suspected person may escape before arrest unless the charge is considered secretly, has in these days of telegraphs, railroads and extradition treaties little of the force which it may have carried with it in cruder times. Moreover, the possibility of indicting public officials or others upon insufficient evidence for political purposes, or for "moral effect," would be done away with, and only those againstwhom legal testimony made the charge reasonably clear would be threatened with prosecution, and then only when their defence had been heard by a magistrate and held insufficient.
Prosecutors now prefer to take as few cases before their grand juries in the first instance as possible, and to send the man with a grievance, who thinks he has some political pull and "wants to get the fellow indicted anyway," into the magistrate's court to make good his charge.
Almost twenty-five per cent of the States in the Union have modified their procedure in this regard so as to conform to modern requirements. The State constitutions of Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Oregon and Colorado give the legislatures the power to make laws dispensing with grand juries in any case, and in California, Connecticut, Kansas, Louisiana, Montana, South Dakota, Utah, Vermont, Wisconsin and Wyoming constitutional provisions exist permitting all criminal proceedings to be made by information, or dispensing with grand juries in certain cases. This is also true of the Federal Government. Experience has demonstrated that ample protection is afforded the accused where the State is permitted to prosecute those held to bail by an examining magistrate upon proof of probable cause. He is better protected than by a grand jury which hears in secret only the evidence against him and gives him no opportunity of explanation.
A system which would allow of the prosecution of all felonies by information would do away with the great and practically useless labor of our grand jurors in the ordinary run of cases, would save endless time and money to all concerned, andmight still retain the grand jury for such purposes as necessity requires. Justice would be more speedy and just as effective if the prosecution of all crimes were instituted before an examining magistrate, and the grand jury would then, at the summons of the court, meet to perform only those important and peculiar functions of investigation that are consonant with its dignity and necessary to the public weal.
FOOTNOTES:[24]Record illegible.[25]The historical development of the grand jury is highly interesting. Originally the assize at which the knights assembled was not unlike a sort of county parliament and all manner of matters were submitted to them. Gradually as the jury developed out of this unorderly gathering together, the sheriffs got into the habit of summoning only enough men to form the grand jury and as many petty juries (when those came into existence) as might be needed.In the beginning private vengeance was the moving cause of all criminal procedure. The aggrieved party made a direct appeal to the county and the issue was fought out, the complainant and defendant appearing in person or by champions. This was exceedingly unsatisfactory for many reasons, among others that not seldom a rich man would hire all the champions within reaching distance and the poor man be left without any, which suggests the somewhat similar practice of many wealthy litigants at the present day. But this mode of individual redress colored all English procedure and is the direct cause which makes English criminal trials in so many ways resemble private litigation. Private vengeance was at the bottom of it.When the "county" or the public were the accusers, a mere accusation was practically equivalent to a conviction subject to the chance of the defendant's escaping by a favorable termination of "the ordeal of water." But "the ordeal" in time died out, just as did wager of battle, and something had to take its place. This was the jury.From very early times we find "grand" or "accusing" juries presenting charges for the trial jury to dispose of, although the accusing jury frequently acted as trial jury as well. By 1212 it had become customary to submit a charge found by a presenting jury to a larger combination jury which included the original body which had presented the charge. This enlarged jury, usually composed of a jury from another "hundred" and "the four vills," delivered a unanimous verdict. By 1300 it had begun to be the privilege of an accused to "challenge" those who had presented the charge against him, but it was the approved practice to try an accused by some at least of those who had presented him."The four knights were called, who came to the bar girt with swords (above their garments) and were charged—to choose twelve knights girt with swords for themselves and the others—and the justices ordered the parties to go with the knights into a chamber to choose or to declare their challenges of the others chosen by the four, for after the return of the panel so made by the four knights the parties shall have no challenge to panel or polls before the justices." (1406) Y.B. 7 H. IV, 20, 28.The idea seemed to be that unless there were a few on the jury who had already formed a provisional opinion as to his guilt the prosecution would not have a fair chance. In Willoughby's case in 1340, Parning, J. naively remarked, "In such case the inquest should be taken by the indictors (the accusors) and others. Certainly if the indictors be not thereit is not well for the King." In 1351 by St. 25 Edw. III, c. 3, it was enacted that "no indictor be put on an inquest upon the deliverance of one indicted for trespass or felony, if he be challenged for this cause by the party indicted." Persons "presented" or accused could "put themselves" upon different counties, that is to say, could submit their case to juries drawn from such counties, with certain limitations, as they might elect. Thus we find a case where one having been "presented" by an accusing jury "puts himself on the County of Surrey and on all men in England who know him." At Easter came riding twenty-four knights from Surrey at the king's summons who promptly found him to be a robber, and, says the record, "Since he put himself upon these,let him be hanged."There is a criminal case in Y.B. 30 & 31 Edw. I, 528, which throws a good light on the procedure of the time. W. was the stabler of J.'s horse and had been kicked, while trying to mount, so that he died. The horse thereupon became forfeit to the king as adeodand. The jury accused J. of keeping the horse in spite of this and also charged him with having buried W. without calling in the coroner. This he denied and "put himself on the county." The judge, addressing the jury, which was probably the same that had made the accusation, charged as follows:"If W. died from the kick of the horse, the horse would bedeodand. If not it would be John's. If the king should lose through you what rightly belongs to him, you would be perjured. If you should take away from John what is his, you would commit a mortal sin. Therefore, by the oath you have made, disclose and tell us the truth, whether the said W. died of the horse's kick or not. If you find that he did, tell us in whose hands is thedeodandhorse and what he is worth; and whether the said W. was buried without a view of the coroner."All things considered—a pretty good charge.Gradually, and in large measure because the "ordeal" had disappeared and the grand jury as a distinct body had been fully established, no method of ascertaining the truth of an accusation was left, and a mere presentment in fact amounted to a conviction, so that the need of some other jury to pass upon the issue was apparent. Out of this need the modern petty jury developed.In course of time the accusing jury became as it is now, a distinct and separate body, deliberating secretly, its members being no longer permitted to sit as trial jurors. They acted on common report, their own personal information, and upon the application of injured parties, and initiated most criminal proceedings. It was necessary for some one to ferret out crime and hold the perpetrators for trial, and the jury did practically the whole business. As the years went on the jury became more and more a purelyex parteaccusing body with practically no judicial supervision and receiving about what it saw fit as evidence. From time to time the powers and the character of the grand jury has been fiercely assailed. Two centuries ago it came near receiving a knock-out blow, but it had become too firmly established. In Shaftsbury's case, 8 How. St. Tr. 759 (1681), they were in fact compelled to receive their evidence publicly in court, but their vigorous protests and the failure of the attempt left the body all the more securely entrenched in English procedure.—Condensation from Prof. J.B. Thayer's masterly chapter on "Trial by Jury and Its Development" in his "Preliminary Treatise on the Law of Evidence."[26]Cf. "Reform in Criminal Procedure," H.W. Chapin, 7 Harvard Law Review 189.
[24]Record illegible.
[24]Record illegible.
[25]The historical development of the grand jury is highly interesting. Originally the assize at which the knights assembled was not unlike a sort of county parliament and all manner of matters were submitted to them. Gradually as the jury developed out of this unorderly gathering together, the sheriffs got into the habit of summoning only enough men to form the grand jury and as many petty juries (when those came into existence) as might be needed.In the beginning private vengeance was the moving cause of all criminal procedure. The aggrieved party made a direct appeal to the county and the issue was fought out, the complainant and defendant appearing in person or by champions. This was exceedingly unsatisfactory for many reasons, among others that not seldom a rich man would hire all the champions within reaching distance and the poor man be left without any, which suggests the somewhat similar practice of many wealthy litigants at the present day. But this mode of individual redress colored all English procedure and is the direct cause which makes English criminal trials in so many ways resemble private litigation. Private vengeance was at the bottom of it.When the "county" or the public were the accusers, a mere accusation was practically equivalent to a conviction subject to the chance of the defendant's escaping by a favorable termination of "the ordeal of water." But "the ordeal" in time died out, just as did wager of battle, and something had to take its place. This was the jury.From very early times we find "grand" or "accusing" juries presenting charges for the trial jury to dispose of, although the accusing jury frequently acted as trial jury as well. By 1212 it had become customary to submit a charge found by a presenting jury to a larger combination jury which included the original body which had presented the charge. This enlarged jury, usually composed of a jury from another "hundred" and "the four vills," delivered a unanimous verdict. By 1300 it had begun to be the privilege of an accused to "challenge" those who had presented the charge against him, but it was the approved practice to try an accused by some at least of those who had presented him."The four knights were called, who came to the bar girt with swords (above their garments) and were charged—to choose twelve knights girt with swords for themselves and the others—and the justices ordered the parties to go with the knights into a chamber to choose or to declare their challenges of the others chosen by the four, for after the return of the panel so made by the four knights the parties shall have no challenge to panel or polls before the justices." (1406) Y.B. 7 H. IV, 20, 28.The idea seemed to be that unless there were a few on the jury who had already formed a provisional opinion as to his guilt the prosecution would not have a fair chance. In Willoughby's case in 1340, Parning, J. naively remarked, "In such case the inquest should be taken by the indictors (the accusors) and others. Certainly if the indictors be not thereit is not well for the King." In 1351 by St. 25 Edw. III, c. 3, it was enacted that "no indictor be put on an inquest upon the deliverance of one indicted for trespass or felony, if he be challenged for this cause by the party indicted." Persons "presented" or accused could "put themselves" upon different counties, that is to say, could submit their case to juries drawn from such counties, with certain limitations, as they might elect. Thus we find a case where one having been "presented" by an accusing jury "puts himself on the County of Surrey and on all men in England who know him." At Easter came riding twenty-four knights from Surrey at the king's summons who promptly found him to be a robber, and, says the record, "Since he put himself upon these,let him be hanged."There is a criminal case in Y.B. 30 & 31 Edw. I, 528, which throws a good light on the procedure of the time. W. was the stabler of J.'s horse and had been kicked, while trying to mount, so that he died. The horse thereupon became forfeit to the king as adeodand. The jury accused J. of keeping the horse in spite of this and also charged him with having buried W. without calling in the coroner. This he denied and "put himself on the county." The judge, addressing the jury, which was probably the same that had made the accusation, charged as follows:"If W. died from the kick of the horse, the horse would bedeodand. If not it would be John's. If the king should lose through you what rightly belongs to him, you would be perjured. If you should take away from John what is his, you would commit a mortal sin. Therefore, by the oath you have made, disclose and tell us the truth, whether the said W. died of the horse's kick or not. If you find that he did, tell us in whose hands is thedeodandhorse and what he is worth; and whether the said W. was buried without a view of the coroner."All things considered—a pretty good charge.Gradually, and in large measure because the "ordeal" had disappeared and the grand jury as a distinct body had been fully established, no method of ascertaining the truth of an accusation was left, and a mere presentment in fact amounted to a conviction, so that the need of some other jury to pass upon the issue was apparent. Out of this need the modern petty jury developed.In course of time the accusing jury became as it is now, a distinct and separate body, deliberating secretly, its members being no longer permitted to sit as trial jurors. They acted on common report, their own personal information, and upon the application of injured parties, and initiated most criminal proceedings. It was necessary for some one to ferret out crime and hold the perpetrators for trial, and the jury did practically the whole business. As the years went on the jury became more and more a purelyex parteaccusing body with practically no judicial supervision and receiving about what it saw fit as evidence. From time to time the powers and the character of the grand jury has been fiercely assailed. Two centuries ago it came near receiving a knock-out blow, but it had become too firmly established. In Shaftsbury's case, 8 How. St. Tr. 759 (1681), they were in fact compelled to receive their evidence publicly in court, but their vigorous protests and the failure of the attempt left the body all the more securely entrenched in English procedure.—Condensation from Prof. J.B. Thayer's masterly chapter on "Trial by Jury and Its Development" in his "Preliminary Treatise on the Law of Evidence."
[25]The historical development of the grand jury is highly interesting. Originally the assize at which the knights assembled was not unlike a sort of county parliament and all manner of matters were submitted to them. Gradually as the jury developed out of this unorderly gathering together, the sheriffs got into the habit of summoning only enough men to form the grand jury and as many petty juries (when those came into existence) as might be needed.
In the beginning private vengeance was the moving cause of all criminal procedure. The aggrieved party made a direct appeal to the county and the issue was fought out, the complainant and defendant appearing in person or by champions. This was exceedingly unsatisfactory for many reasons, among others that not seldom a rich man would hire all the champions within reaching distance and the poor man be left without any, which suggests the somewhat similar practice of many wealthy litigants at the present day. But this mode of individual redress colored all English procedure and is the direct cause which makes English criminal trials in so many ways resemble private litigation. Private vengeance was at the bottom of it.
When the "county" or the public were the accusers, a mere accusation was practically equivalent to a conviction subject to the chance of the defendant's escaping by a favorable termination of "the ordeal of water." But "the ordeal" in time died out, just as did wager of battle, and something had to take its place. This was the jury.
From very early times we find "grand" or "accusing" juries presenting charges for the trial jury to dispose of, although the accusing jury frequently acted as trial jury as well. By 1212 it had become customary to submit a charge found by a presenting jury to a larger combination jury which included the original body which had presented the charge. This enlarged jury, usually composed of a jury from another "hundred" and "the four vills," delivered a unanimous verdict. By 1300 it had begun to be the privilege of an accused to "challenge" those who had presented the charge against him, but it was the approved practice to try an accused by some at least of those who had presented him.
"The four knights were called, who came to the bar girt with swords (above their garments) and were charged—to choose twelve knights girt with swords for themselves and the others—and the justices ordered the parties to go with the knights into a chamber to choose or to declare their challenges of the others chosen by the four, for after the return of the panel so made by the four knights the parties shall have no challenge to panel or polls before the justices." (1406) Y.B. 7 H. IV, 20, 28.
The idea seemed to be that unless there were a few on the jury who had already formed a provisional opinion as to his guilt the prosecution would not have a fair chance. In Willoughby's case in 1340, Parning, J. naively remarked, "In such case the inquest should be taken by the indictors (the accusors) and others. Certainly if the indictors be not thereit is not well for the King." In 1351 by St. 25 Edw. III, c. 3, it was enacted that "no indictor be put on an inquest upon the deliverance of one indicted for trespass or felony, if he be challenged for this cause by the party indicted." Persons "presented" or accused could "put themselves" upon different counties, that is to say, could submit their case to juries drawn from such counties, with certain limitations, as they might elect. Thus we find a case where one having been "presented" by an accusing jury "puts himself on the County of Surrey and on all men in England who know him." At Easter came riding twenty-four knights from Surrey at the king's summons who promptly found him to be a robber, and, says the record, "Since he put himself upon these,let him be hanged."
There is a criminal case in Y.B. 30 & 31 Edw. I, 528, which throws a good light on the procedure of the time. W. was the stabler of J.'s horse and had been kicked, while trying to mount, so that he died. The horse thereupon became forfeit to the king as adeodand. The jury accused J. of keeping the horse in spite of this and also charged him with having buried W. without calling in the coroner. This he denied and "put himself on the county." The judge, addressing the jury, which was probably the same that had made the accusation, charged as follows:
"If W. died from the kick of the horse, the horse would bedeodand. If not it would be John's. If the king should lose through you what rightly belongs to him, you would be perjured. If you should take away from John what is his, you would commit a mortal sin. Therefore, by the oath you have made, disclose and tell us the truth, whether the said W. died of the horse's kick or not. If you find that he did, tell us in whose hands is thedeodandhorse and what he is worth; and whether the said W. was buried without a view of the coroner."
"If W. died from the kick of the horse, the horse would bedeodand. If not it would be John's. If the king should lose through you what rightly belongs to him, you would be perjured. If you should take away from John what is his, you would commit a mortal sin. Therefore, by the oath you have made, disclose and tell us the truth, whether the said W. died of the horse's kick or not. If you find that he did, tell us in whose hands is thedeodandhorse and what he is worth; and whether the said W. was buried without a view of the coroner."
All things considered—a pretty good charge.
Gradually, and in large measure because the "ordeal" had disappeared and the grand jury as a distinct body had been fully established, no method of ascertaining the truth of an accusation was left, and a mere presentment in fact amounted to a conviction, so that the need of some other jury to pass upon the issue was apparent. Out of this need the modern petty jury developed.
In course of time the accusing jury became as it is now, a distinct and separate body, deliberating secretly, its members being no longer permitted to sit as trial jurors. They acted on common report, their own personal information, and upon the application of injured parties, and initiated most criminal proceedings. It was necessary for some one to ferret out crime and hold the perpetrators for trial, and the jury did practically the whole business. As the years went on the jury became more and more a purelyex parteaccusing body with practically no judicial supervision and receiving about what it saw fit as evidence. From time to time the powers and the character of the grand jury has been fiercely assailed. Two centuries ago it came near receiving a knock-out blow, but it had become too firmly established. In Shaftsbury's case, 8 How. St. Tr. 759 (1681), they were in fact compelled to receive their evidence publicly in court, but their vigorous protests and the failure of the attempt left the body all the more securely entrenched in English procedure.—Condensation from Prof. J.B. Thayer's masterly chapter on "Trial by Jury and Its Development" in his "Preliminary Treatise on the Law of Evidence."
[26]Cf. "Reform in Criminal Procedure," H.W. Chapin, 7 Harvard Law Review 189.
[26]Cf. "Reform in Criminal Procedure," H.W. Chapin, 7 Harvard Law Review 189.
CHAPTER VII
THE LAW'S DELAYS
"IF THE COOK SHOULD STEAL THE TEAPOT"
"I would have her locked up and punished!" the reader undoubtedly exclaims as he notes our title. It is hardly likely, however, that he realizes the possible significance of such an undertaking. For the edification, therefore, of those who have cooks and teapots, and in order to be forewarned, if not fore-armed, let us suppose that the worthy Mr. Appleboy has not only the domestic necessary for our case, but also a family heirloom which is worth more than twenty-five dollars, the requisite value to make its abstraction, with felonious intent, grand larceny in the second degree.
Mr. Appleboy, after a moderately hard day's work, has been for an hour at the club, and is now ascending his front steps. As he is about to place the key in the door, he observes his cook, Maria, making her exit from the area with some large object concealed beneath her shawl. A flash from the dying sun, setting over the elevated railroad tracks of Sixth Avenue, betrays a telltale protruding spout. Maria does not perceive her master, but the latter, being of an inquiring disposition, descends the steps and follows her down the street. She hurries along upon her journey until, reachingEighth Avenue, she turns the corner and enters a pawnshop. Mr. Appleboy, puffing, follows hard, and opens the door just as Maria is in the act of receiving from the pawnbroker the sum of ten dollars. She has the money in one hand, the teapot in the other; she is caughtin flagrante delicto, or, in the modern equivalent, "with the goods on."
Maria shrieks and calls upon the saints. Appleboy, purple from his exertions, pounds the floor with his gold-headed cane and fiercely inquires what she means by going off with his silver teapot. In reply Maria falls on her knees, breaks into tears, and confesses her crime, offering no excuse, and suggesting no palliating circumstance. She implores his forgiveness, but Appleboy, righteously indignant, is obdurate. She could have stolen anything but his grandmother's teapot, and he would have overlooked it. The pawnbroker, who takes but a mild interest in the proceedings, merely seizes the opportunity to remove from the cook's unresisting fingers the roll of bills.
Appleboy resolves to do his duty. He will set an example of good citizenship—he will have her arrested, locked up, and sent to prison.
"Summon a policeman!" he cries to the indifferent pawnbroker.
"Get one yourself!" replies the other.
Appleboy starts for the door, keeping one eye on the prostrate Maria. Two blocks distant he sees a stalwart officer in the act of conversing affably with a street cleaner. At this moment an urchin notices Maria couchant upon the floor. An expansive grin takes possession of his features, and, placing his fingers to his mouth, he emits a shrill whistle.Instantly, like a flight of vultures, a small army of boys descend upon Appleboy, who now decides that the only way to procure the policeman is to shout for him. In his embarrassment he yells: "Stop thief! Stop thief! Police!" but the officer pays no attention. He is discussing Tommy Sullivan's chowder party of the night before.
"Say, mister, I'll get the copper for ye," shouts some little fellow, and starts on a run up the avenue. A few follow him and quickly corral the officer, who, protesting, dawdles slowly in the direction of Mr. Appleboy, swinging his club, and apparently taking little interest in their remarks. Meantime, the pawnbroker has shut and locked the door. Maria, within, is still in a state of coma. The much-annoyed old gentleman is fast being surrounded by a dense throng of loafers, tradesmen, ladies of the neighborhood and pedestrians, while the street is blocked with vagrant cabs and grocery carts. He wishes he were at home in his comfortable library, but realizes that he is in for it now, and must stick it out.
"Well, what do you want?" demands the officer, pushing his way through the crowd until he confronts the innocent cause of the disturbance. "What are yer makin' all this row about, and blockin' up the street fer?"
"Maria, my cook, stole my silver teapot," answers Mr. Appleboy. "I caught her trying to sell it inthere. I ask that you place her under arrest."
"What's yer name?" asks the policeman. "Who are yer anyway?" The crowd cheers delightedly, for while the copper is not popular in the neighborhood, an old swell like this is "nuts" for everybody.
"I am a citizen and a taxpayer," replies Mr.Appleboy stiffly, "and I insist upon your doing your duty and arresting this woman."
"Aw, come on now and give us yer name," continues the officer. "You can't expec' me t'arrest a person unless I know who I'm doin' it fer. How doIknow yer ain't throwin' some game into me?"
At this moment one of the boys shies a banana peel at Mr. Appleboy's tall hat. The latter, seeing his disadvantage, responds:
"My name is Silas Appleboy, and I am a taxpayer and a freeholder. I demand that you arrest this woman." The policeman, somewhat impressed by the other's vehemence and the statement that he is a freeholder (the meaning of which the official naturally does not understand), inquires a little more genially where the lady is.
"In that shop," replies her master. The crowd, with a whoop, rushes at the door, but the pawnbroker is standing inside in an attitude of defence. The policeman, closely followed by Appleboy, pushes his way through the mob, and raps loudly.
"Stand back there, now," shouts the officer, waving his club. The small boys shrink back, leaving Appleboy in the centre of the ring. The pawnbroker opens the door. Maria is upon her knees, calling vaguely upon Heaven to defend her. The silver teapot reposes upon the counter. The officer grasps Maria roughly by the shoulder and yanks her to her feet.
"Get up there and pull yerself together!" he exclaims. "What's yer name?"
"Me name is Maria Holohan," she replies hysterically.
"Do yer know that man?" continues the officer, pointing at Appleboy.
"Shure, I know him," is the answer. "Haven't I worked for him for fourteen years?"
"Did you steal his teapot?" asked the officer.
"Oh, Holy Mother! Holy Mother!" wails Maria. "I took a dhrop too much, an' shure I didn't know what I was doin' at all, at all."
"Well, the first thing you'll do," remarks the officer, "'ll be to walk to the house. Come on, now!" And forthwith he drags Maria to the door, and, holding her firmly by the wrist, marches her upon the sidewalk. Mr. Appleboy, the teapot clasped to his bosom, follows immediately behind. Their appearance is greeted with vociferous approval by the waiting crowd, who fall in and escort the group towards the police station. But Maria's strength fails her, and, presently, with a groan she collapses. Perhaps the drop too much has taken effect in her legs. At all events, despite the efforts of the officer, she refuses to move, and remains limp. The crowd has now become so dense as entirely to obstruct all traffic in the street, long lines of electric cars leading in each direction up the avenue, motor-men and conductors forming a strong adjunct to those giving gratuitous advice. Two grocery wagons get their wheels locked in the throng. Some one telephones to the station house. At last the distant clanging of the patrol is heard. The crowd scatters, the carts and cabs extricate themselves, and the "hurry-up wagon" backs to the sidewalk with a flourish, two more coppers swinging on behind. They bundle Maria unceremoniously inside, escort her erstwhile employer with hardly more courtesyinto the same vehicle, and toss in the teapot: the gong rings: and Mr. Appleboy starts upon his task of bringing an evil-doer to justice, and proving himself worthy of the proud title of citizen.
The drive to the station seems hours long, and the fumes of whiskey are very evident upon Maria. The officers are taciturn. The nose has been knocked off the teapot. Mr. Appleboy, holding himself tense in his seat, endeavors not to be jostled against the lady who has, previously, cooked his meals. Now and again she addresses him in no complimentary terms. She has by this time reached the belligerent stage, although she has no thought of denying her guilt.
The wagon draws up with a jerk in front of the precinct station house. Into a second crowd of gamins and loafers, Appleboy, still clutching the noseless teapot, emerges. He is followed by two policemen, half carrying, half supporting Maria. The doorman allows the party to enter, while repelling the inquisitive throng who would like to accompany them.
Once inside, Maria and her master, little distinction being made between them, are brought before the sergeant, who reclines behind a desk upon an elevated platform. This official interrogates Mr. Appleboy somewhat brusquely as to his name, address and the charge which he makes against the defendant, laboriously copying the answers in the "blotter." Maria, petrified with terror, absolutely refuses to answer any questions, and mutters incoherently to herself. The sergeant, satisfied of Mr. Appleboy's respectability by reason of his highly polished hat and gold-headed cane, commits theprisoner to a cell to await the hearing before the magistrate on the following morning. As the charge is one of felony, and as none of her friends as yet know of her detention or arrest, the question of her release upon bail does not arise, and after the sergeant has directed Mr. Appleboy to attend at the nearest police court the next morning at half-past eight punctually, that gentleman escapes down the steps of the precinct house, feeling that he has lived through untold ages of misery. The crowd cheers him as he descends, and he hastens homeward, the joy of release tempered only by the prospective agony of the morrow. The noseless teapot remains in the custody of the sergeant at the station house.
We can imagine Appleboy telling the story to his wife and children. How heroically he figures in his own account of the proceedings! How picturesquely penitent is Maria! How dramatic her capture in the very act of disposing of the stolen property! How the policemen cower at the majestic Appleboy's approach! By the time the old fellow has taken his coffee and lighted his perfecto he is almost restored to his former condition of pompous dignity. His intention to vindicate his position as a freeholder and to see that the law shall take its course is revived, and he dreams of Maria hurtling through the abyss with dozens of silver teapots tied about her ample neck.
DELAY THE FIRST
The next morning Appleboy orders his carriage and drives in state to the police court. His tall hat secures him easy access to a long room with alow ceiling, in which the air is full of strange odors.
Across the end of the court, two-thirds of the way towards the front, stretches an iron grating through which a gate admits police officers, local politicians, lawyers and the witnesses in any examination actually in progress. He enters the room exactly at eight-thirty. Already it is crowded, and, having no business inside the gate, he is forced to sit upon a bench in company with various friends of the divers defendants who have been committed during the night.
It is early as yet, and a substantial breakfast has put Mr. Appleboy in an optimistic frame of mind. Once the judge arrives how quickly the case will be disposed of and our hero receive the thanks of the magistrate for acting as he has done! But alas! Already a long file of officers is forming at the left of the desk behind the grating. Each officer has located at a safe distance one or more "drunks" or "disorderlies" whom he has gathered in during the preceding evening, and who have spent the night in the station house. The officers have recently come off post and now are waiting sleepily for the arrival of the magistrate to dispose of "The Watch."
By a quarter to nine the line has reached immense proportions. Twenty officers stand in single file and the procession of prisoners reaches to the doorway of the cells. In the meantime the jam in the room itself has become greater, and the heat and odors more oppressive. Mr. Appleboy wipes his brow with his silk handkerchief. He wishes he had brought his wife's smelling salts.
Presently he discerns amid the crowd inside the railing the now familiar features of Pat, the officer, who beckons him to come within.
Our friend rises to his feet to obey, but instantly another officer bawls: "Sit down there, you!" and Appleboy collapses.
"Hi, there, Rounds, let that old guy in, will ye?" asks Pat good-naturedly.
The roundsman condescendingly nods to the grizzled guardian of the gate, who holds it open just wide enough to allow our hero to squeeze through.
"Mornin'," remarks Pat, chewing vigorously.
"Good-morning, officer," replies Appleboy. "Where is the prisoner?"
"She came in the wagon half an hour ago," says Pat. "Step up while he makes out the complaint. After that we'll arrange her."
So Pat and his complainant join the mob which is besieging the clerk's desk, and finally secure enough of that functionary's scattered attention to induce him to draw up a brief statement of the facts in the case. Pat disappears into the cells to emerge in a few minutes, escorting the bewildered Maria. She is then "arranged," which in police parlance is to say she is arraigned. She has no counsel, and evidently supposes her interrogator to be the judge, for she insists on addressing him as "Yer onner." The clerk briefly warns her of her rights and puts the few necessary questions, which Maria answers in a quavering voice. It is obvious that she expects to be at once deported to Sing Sing or the "Island."
"Name?"
"Maria Holohan, yer onner."
"Address?"
"Two East Seventy-first Strate, yer onner, wid this man here." (Indicating Appleboy.)
"Occupation?"
"Shure, 'tis his cook, Oi am." ("Housework" puts down the clerk.)
"How long have you lived at this last address?"
"Fourteen year, yer onner, come St. Michael's Day."
"What have you to say, if anything, relative to the charge against you?"
(Maria mutters incoherently) "Shure Oi took the taypot, all right, all right."
"Guilty?" asks the clerk.
"Guilty," whispers Maria.
"That's all," says the other. "Stand back there and give some one else a chance."
Pat, holding the papers in his hands, escorts Maria to the end of the line, and Appleboy returns to his seat. In his deposition he has stated that his occupation is that of "Bank President" and he has instantly observed a change of attitude in those about him. "Rounds" even expels two unsavory characters for the purpose of making room for him in the front row.
In a moment more the judge enters hurriedly, takes his seat at the desk, and begins rapidly to dispose of the file of prisoners before him. One after another the officers press forward, make a brief statement of the circumstances of the arrest, and the prisoner is led away with a fine, a lecture, or a sentence of a few days in the workhouse. There is no opportunity for other cases until all the "disorderlies" and street-walkers have been dealt with.Half-past nine comes, quarter of ten and ten o'clock, the hour at which Mr. Appleboy usually makes a leisurely descent to his office, but still there is no respite. The monotonous business continues. But Mr. Appleboy's time is valuable, and he begins to fume and fidget. He thinks of the dollars he is losing by performing his duty as a citizen.
Pat has gradually neared the desk. At length there is but one more case to be heard, and the "Rounds" summons our hero once more inside. Maria is thrust in front of the platform and stands with her hands on the rail. It has seemed an easy thing to Mr. Appleboy for a complainant to tell his story, and he has smiled scornfully to himself at the wandering and unconvincing statements he has heard during the morning, but as he is pushed upon the platform under the sharp eye of the magistrate, his courage begins to ooze out of him. He wishes again for the hundredth time he had let Maria go off with the old teapot. The very thought of tea sickens him.
"Next," calls the "Rounds," as a dowdy young woman is led away, weeping hysterically.
Pat hands up the papers.
"Maria Holohan," mutters the judge, running his eye over the "information." "Stole a teapot,—um—um—Is this the defendant?"
"He indentifies her," answers Pat.
The judge turns to Appleboy.
"Are you the complainant?" he asks briskly.
"Y-e-e-s," answers our hero, "I am. This is my cook."
"That will do," says the magistrate. "Answer only the questions that are put to you. Do youswear that the statements contained in this complaint are the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you, God?"
"I do," replies Appleboy with vigor.
Luckily for Appleboy, no lawyer appears for the delinquent Maria. Unfamiliar with all the vagaries and devices of the criminal law, this lady, realizing that she has been caught red-handed, foolishly supposes that there is nothing for her to do but to cry for forgiveness and beg for mercy.
"Do you desire counsel?" asks the judge.
Maria stares vaguely.
"Have ye got a lawyer?" interprets the nearest copper.
"Don't want no lawyer!" snaps Maria.
"I see you plead guilty," says the judge.
"Shure," she answers.
"Well," says the magistrate, "as she pleads guilty, I will not detain you further. Your cook, eh? Well, well, it's too bad! Why will they do such things? I am glad you did not lose the teapot. That is all."
Maria is led away, while Mr. Appleboy descends from the platform, to be followed by some other righteously indignant complainant.
The whole transaction has occupied less than a minute and a half. In order to accomplish it, Mr. Appleboy has remained in court from half-past eight in the morning until a quarter to twelve.
"Thank goodness," he says to himself, "it is all over now. The rest will be plain sailing." Ah, how little do the Appleboys know of the administration of criminal justice! Pat accompanies him to his carriage, expressing regret that the matter could nothave been disposed of more speedily. Appleboy is not ungenerous. He always tips the colored porter in the sleeping-car most liberally, but although it is obvious, possibly, that Pat would like a drink and some cigars, Appleboy, believing that by accommodating him he would be committing a felony or, at least, a misdemeanor, coldly bids him good-afternoon, and Patrick, crestfallen, returns to the precinct house.
Meanwhile the magistrate fixes bail for Maria at five hundred dollars, and the teapot is tagged and returned to the custody of the sergeant at the station. Tired out, but feeling that "a duty well performed is a rainbow to the heart," Mr. Appleboy seeks the bosom of his family.
DELAY THE SECOND
Cookless, the Appleboys struggle through the following week. It is in the height of the season and cooks are scarce; they are also ill-tempered; and in five days Mrs. Appleboy has tried and dismissed three. The family, dinnerless, nightly seek a neighboring restaurant, and endeavor to console themselves with the theatre. But after the fourth night this bores them. They begin to long for Maria's omelets and Irish stew. After fourteen years one gets used to a particular kind of pudding.
"I almost wish," said Appleboy to his wife when they are alone, "that I had not done anything about Maria, but just let her come back and cook for us. I don't think she would have tried to steal the teapot a second time."
"But how do you know, Silas?" replies his wife. "Think of the orgies that may have been going on in the kitchen in the last fourteen years!"
"True, true," answers Appleboy, and again renews his determination to see the thing through to the bitter end. Then Mr. Appleboy receives at his office a green slip calling for his attendance on the morrow before the grand jury of the County of New York, promptly at ten o'clock. He has never been to the Criminal Courts building in his life. He only supposes vaguely that it is situated somewhere near the "wholesale district" and not far from the Italian quarter. He associates it with trips to Chinatown, the East Side and the Bowery.
After being thoroughly shaken up by a long journey over the cobblestones in his carriage, Mr. Appleboy finds himself on Franklin Street, between the Tombs, on the one hand, and the Criminal Courts building upon the other. Over his head runs "The Bridge of Sighs." A congregation of loafers, lawyers, runners, policemen and reporters linger upon the sidewalk. Unfamiliar with the means of entrance and exit, Appleboy turns the corner and climbs two long flights of stone steps upon the outside of the building instead of utilizing the side entrance upon the ground floor and taking the elevator. He enters an enormous hall around which, on all four sides, corridors reach to the top of the building. A motley collection of people are hurrying hither and thither. After some difficulty, Appleboy discovers a lift packed with odoriferous Italians, men with bandaged eyes and faces, small, half-clad children, and divers persons smoking enormous, evil-smelling cigars, whom he later discovers to be members of the legal profession. The car stops at the third floor.
"District attorney and grand jury," calls the elevator man. "Grand jury to the right."
Appleboy gets off with the rest of the mob, and wanders down a narrow corridor past rows of offices, until he comes to a policeman standing by the door of a small room crowded with people. There is hardly space to breathe, much less to sit down. From time to time a bell jingles in the distance, a door into another room opens, somebody comes out, and an officer calls out a name. Its owner hastily responds, is shot through the door into the other room, and the door closes again. This process goes on interminably. In a corner, clerks separated by a railing are busily engaged in making out subpœnas and filling in certificates of attendance. Police officers are everywhere. Appleboy takes his stand by the door. It is half-past ten o'clock. He has no means of knowing when he will be summoned before the august body who are deliberating in the next room. He has a craving to smoke, although he makes it a rule never to do so before six o'clock in the afternoon. He has left his newspaper at home, and has yielded up his subpœna to the officer at the door. There is nothing to occupy his attention except the sour visages of those about him. They belong to a class of people who instinctively fill him with disgust, being representatives of what Appleboy and his wife are accustomed to term the "masses."
Person after person is summoned into the other room, but no one seems to want the banker. Pat is there, to be sure, but he is at his usual pastime, enjoying the delights of mastication. He no longer has any "use" for Appleboy. At about a quarter-past eleven, the officer beside the outer door calls the name of Silas Appleboy. Our hero, believing that at last his turn has arrived, starts from his seat, only to be directed to "Come here!" by the officer. He discovers that he has been summoned to confer with a representative of the district attorney, who invites him into a neighboring office.
"Mr. Appleboy," says this young gentleman when the two are comfortably seated, "I see by the papers in the case that a Maria Holohan stole a teapot from you. Under what circumstances was the theft committed?"
Mr. Appleboy, who supposes that the merits of his case have been long since known personally to the district attorney, commences at the beginning and rehearses all his woes and difficulties. The assistant listens courteously, and then, without comment, bows Appleboy out, who returns once more to the ante-chamber of the grand jury. His seat has, meanwhile, been usurped by a corpulent lady in deep mourning, and its former occupant is forced to stand in the corridor for an hour longer. During this period he perchance has the annoyance of hearing Pat remark to a fellow officer in no uncertain tones that "the old guy is no good—a 'dead one'—I didn't even get a smoke off him."
The ante-chamber gradually has been thinning out. Finally Appleboy gets a seat. The bell keeps on ringing until only he and a man with a broken nose are left. At last a policeman hurries out of the open door, the bell rings again, and the clerk at the desk shouts "Appleboy! Appleboy!" Appleboy arises.
"Right in through that door," directs the clerk,and Mr. Appleboy, shrinking, enters timidly the chamber of horrors and finds himself in the centre of a semi-circle of gentlemen of varying ages and appearance. To Appleboy a thousand eyes seem peering at him from every side. The silence is appalling. He stands, silk hat in hand, feeling like a very small boy who has been called before the head master to be punished for some offence. A man in the middle of the semi-circle and directly in front of him, is scratching busily with his pen. The grand jurors whisper among themselves. Presently the foreman looks up, observes Appleboy standing, and remarks: "Sit down, sir." Mr. Appleboy sinks into a chair beside the stenographer. The foreman glances at the indictment already prepared, and then says sharply: "Stand up, sir,—and be sworn!"
A Bible is forced into his unenthusiastic hand.
"You do solemnly swear the evidence you shall give to the Grand Inquest upon the complaint against Maria Holohan shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth: So help you, God!"
Mr. Appleboy replies faintly: "I do," and makes an ineffectual attempt to kiss the Bible.
"Sit down!" directs his interlocutor. "Ahem! You had a teapot worth over fifty dollars, and your cook stole it? Did you see her?"
"Yes," answers Appleboy, and in a few words describes the occurrence. The foreman sweeps the grand jury with his eye.
"Any questions?" he asks. There is no response from the others.
"That is all, sir," says the foreman. "I see thatthe woman pleaded guilty in the police court. Good-morning."
Appleboy takes his hat and retires. Two hours' wait for an examination occupying thirty seconds! He has heard of the "law's delays," now he knows what they are. The bell rings again as he is making his way out into the corridor, and the man with the broken nose stumbles in through the door by which our friend has made his exit.
DELAY THE THIRD
Mr. Appleboy now believes that his troubles are over, for he has consulted his family lawyer in order to make sure that everything is all right, and has learned that since Maria has pleaded guilty in the police court, she will, after her indictment, undoubtedly do likewise in the General Sessions.
Two days later Appleboy receives a subpœna to attend in "Part I of the Court of General Sessions of the Peace" as complainant in the case of "The People of the State of New York against Maria Holohan." Down he goes and sits for a full hour in an ice-cold court-room which is thronged with policemen, irate complainants, and sympathizing friends of the defendants, until, among the line of bedraggled prisoners, who are brought in batches of from four to six from the Tombs through a little door in the back of the room, he recognizes the erstwhile queen of his kitchen—Maria, the unapproachable. She looks much the worse for wear. The feathers of her hat hang disconsolate. In addition she is minus her collar and goes clumping around the room after the policeman as if she had never broiled a lobster or tossed a flapjack. As she turns the corner by the jury box she spies her lawyer, and immediately brightens. They hold an animated conversation in whispers as he takes his place beside her at the bar.
"Maria Holohan," says the clerk severely, "you have been indicted by the grand jury for grand larceny in the first degree. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?"
Appleboy starts from his seat almost ready to call out in explanation: "She pleads guilty, your honor," but before he has an opportunity to do so, or to suffer any of the uncomfortable consequences of such an act, the weazened-faced little attorney representing Maria responds sharply: "Not guilty."
Appleboy is stunned. Why, the woman has already confessed her guilt, after having been caught in the act! What absurdity! What nonsense! But the plea is taken; the lawyer asks that a date be set for trial not nearer than a week on the ground that he may conclude upon investigation to advise his client to change her plea, and because he has a witness living outside the State; and the court grants this application.
Not guilty! As Maria tramps out in company with other defendants, Appleboy makes up his mind that he will see what all this means, and steps forward through the gate to speak in person to the representative of the district attorney. A hand is laid upon his shoulder, and he is hauled back unceremoniously.
"Here! Where are you going?"
"I want to speak to the district attorney," he replies meekly.
"Sit down," replies the officer. "He can't speakto you now. Look him up in his office after court adjourns."
Mr. Appleboy, chastened by experience, makes no protest and retires from the room. He has lost too much money already by absence from his office to make it worth his while to wait until the adjournment of the court, so he goes down town to attend to his business, and at the first opportunity calls up his attorney to inquire what it all means. The lawyer responds briefly that the mere fact that the defendant has pleaded guilty in the police court does not preclude her from changing her mind and denying her guilt later when called upon to plead to an indictment. He regrets the inconvenience to which his client has been put, and suggests by implication that it would have been well if Mr. Appleboy had consulted him before taking any action in the matter. Appleboy has already come to this conclusion himself.
DELAY THE FOURTH
A week later Appleboy receives another subpœna which commands him under penalty to call at the district attorney's office at half after ten o'clock and "Ask to see" Mr. John Smith, whom he finds, after some difficulty, in a little office in the same building and corridor through which he passed when he appeared before the grand jury.
"Is this Mr. Smith?" he inquires.
"Yes," answers the young man. "What do you want?"
"I have a subpœna," replies the other, "to see you this morning."
"Oh, yes, I remember," remarks the assistant."You're in the Holohan case, aren't you? Woman stole your teapot, didn't she?"
"Yes," mutters Mr. Appleboy, "she did, some time ago. What can I do for you?"
"Well, I want you to tell me about the case," mildly explains the assistant. "Who's Maria Holohan, anyway?"
So Appleboy begins at the beginning and tells the whole story through, while, from time to time, the assistant laughs softly to himself. When the history is concluded, the young man leans back in his chair, blows a ring of smoke towards the ceiling and exclaims: "That's always the way! Some miserable little shyster gets hold of 'em in the Tombs and swears that he can get 'em off, no matter how plain the facts are, or even if they have pleaded guilty in the police court. Well, I'll make a note of the case, and when it comes up for trial you'll get a subpœna. Sorry to have had to bother you. Good-morning!"
DELAY THE FIFTH
Appleboy departs. Three days later he gets another subpœna to appear before the Court of General Sessions. When the case is called, however, Maria's lawyer gets up and moves for an inspection of the grand jury minutes upon the ground that there was not sufficient evidence before that body to warrant the finding of an indictment. The judge denies this motion peremptorily, since there has already been a hearing in the police court. Upon this the attorney states that he is actually engaged in a trial of another action elsewhere. The case therefore "goes over," of necessity. Nearly three weeks have now elapsed since the theft. PresentlyAppleboy gets another subpœna. He trots down to court half an hour before the opening. The case is marked "Ready." He is told to remain in court, but some other case is already on trial, having lasted over from the day before, and at noon it is still in full swing. The court adjourns for an hour, from one to two. Appleboy returns obediently at that time, but the case which was on trial in the morning continues throughout the entire afternoon. He departs at four o'clock, furious.
Next morning he is dragged down again. This time, however, the case against Holohan is adjourned without date, owing to the fact that Maria's counsel has applied to the court for a commission to take testimony in Boston. They intimate that they may interpose the defence of insanity, or at least dipsomania, and evince an unaccountable eagerness to examine Maria's great aunt, who is acting as general housework girl for a minister's family in Roxbury, Mass. The district attorney strenuously opposes this motion. The judge, however, "takes the papers," as he is obliged to assume that the request is made in good faith.
DELAY THE SIXTH
Appleboy hears nothing of the case for another week. At the end of that time he gets a subpœna of a different color, and again journeys down to court. But this time he first seeks out Smith in his office and asks if there is any likelihood of the case being tried that day. Mr. Smith, whose room is thronged with witnesses, tells Mr. Appleboy that he is no longer assigned to that part of the General Sessions on whose calendar the case appears, andthat another assistant, Mr. Jones, will have to try the case. He therefore conducts Mr. Appleboy to an adjoining office and presents him to Jones.
The latter receives Appleboy courteously and assures him that he will try the Holohan case the very first of all. They talk the matter over and unite in their objurgations against defendants' lawyers in general. Jones, however, is confident that this time they will succeed in disposing of the matter. They adjourn together to the court-room. But on the call of the calendar Maria's lawyer claims that one of his most material witnesses is absent, and that without him his client's interests would be jeopardized. The judge, who by this time has correctly gauged the situation, nevertheless directs him to go on with the case. The lawyer then states that he has had a bad night and feels very unwell. The judge continues unsympathetic. The assistant is openly skeptical. The attorney thereupon is suddenly taken with great pain and retires for air to the corridor outside the court-room. Nothing can be done. Perhaps the lawyer really has a pain.
The assistant shrugs his shoulders and announces that he will move the case of Michael Angelo Spaghetti, indicted for assault; the defendant is ordered to the bar, and the court directs the clerk to announce that "no other case will be tried" that day.
Appleboy drags himself with the rest of the throng through the door into the corridor. This is the third time he has practically given up an entire morning to appearing as complainant in a case which seems fated never to be tried. He goes downstairs swearing vengeance against Maria and herlawyer. This performance is repeated possibly some four or five times more with variations. But he never gets nearer than having the case marked "ready," and something always intervenes, Maria's lawyer exhibiting an almost supernatural cleverness in the invention of excuses.
On all these occasions, while awaiting the call of the calendar, Appleboy is likely to sit in close proximity to the defendant, who has been released on bail pending her trial, and who casts withering glances in his direction. Her brother Terence also seizes the opportunity presented by the various adjournments to tell Appleboy what he thinks of him and what he intends to do to him after the case has been disposed of.
The district attorney has done everything in his power to force the defence to trial, but his every attempt has been unavailing. Nevertheless, Appleboy blames him personally for every idiosyncrasy of the law and for every delay procured by the defence.
DELAY THE SEVENTH
It was now the end of June. Mr. Appleboy has planned to take his family abroad, but, although the annual adjournment of court for vacation is at hand, through the dilatory tactics of Maria's pettifogging counsel, the case is still untried.
Appleboy had been in attendance at court eleven separate times, but the only satisfaction which he receives is the assurance that he will be paid fifty cents for each one of his subpœnas. He is by this time so disgusted with the whole business and has taken such a fierce dislike to all judges, district attorneys, policemen and lawyers, that he would long ago have thrown up the case had it not been for the fact that he has a vague idea that in so doing he might be compounding a felony. His desire to set an example as a model citizen has long since evaporated. Countless members of the Holohan family beset him at home and at the office, beseeching him for clemency.
It is possible that without consulting the district attorney, and under the assumption that he must remain at hand as a witness, he gives up Europe and takes a house on the mosquito coast instead. His wife is very unpleasant about it. She hints that Appleboy need not have been so vindictive in the first place. After he has cancelled his passage, and the whole family are safely ensconced for the summer, Appleboy discovers that cases in which the defendants have been released upon bail are not tried during July, August, and September. Appleboy's feeling can be easily imagined. It is needless to say that he does not impart the information to his lady.
The summer proves generally unsatisfactory. The visits of Maria's family and their efforts to persuade him not to prosecute are redoubled. Most of them are domestics on their evenings "out," plentiful of tears and reproaches. It is impossible to escape them. He also receives numerous letters from the lady's attorney suggesting that he call at the latter's office. These he has systematically ignored.
DELAY THE EIGHTH
October comes. The family return. Once more the familiar subpœna is served upon our hero at his office. At the sight of it he scowls fiercely as hewatches the white smoke sailing up the air shaft into the azure of the sky. It is a beautiful autumn day. He recalls the police court, and the grand jury, the Criminal Courts building, the General Sessions, and Maria and Terence, and his miserable summer! Vestryman Appleboy mutters something very much resembling profanity. He thinks: "If I had not tried to punish that cook for stealing the teapot, why!—I might be spending to-day in Rome or Paris!" The next morning, however, finds him once more on his dreary way to court.
He consults Jones again upstairs, who promises by all that is holy that nothing shall prevent a trial. The case is marked "Ready," without opposition, and the assistant district attorney moves the indictment.
"Maria Holohan to the bar!" calls the clerk, as a jury is rapidly empanelled.
Appleboy is exultant. He is to reap the reward of virtue and fidelity to principle. At last the criminal is to be made to pay the penalty. He looks eagerly for Maria.
"Holohan! Maria Holohan!" reiterates the clerk.
But Maria comes not.
"Call her in the corridor," directs the judge to the officer at the door.
There is a sudden silence in the court-room. No response is heard outside.
The assistant district attorney says something to the judge, who nods to the clerk.
"Maria Holohan, come forth and answer pursuant to the terms of your recognizance or your recognizance will be forfeited," shouts that official.
There is no reply.
"Terence Holohan, bring forth Maria Holohan, for whom you are bound pursuant to the terms of your recognizance, or your recognizance will be forfeited," solemnly intones the clerk.
Terence arises and comes slowly forward from where he has been sitting.
"Are you the bondsman in this case?" asks the clerk.
"Oi am!" replies Terence.
"Where is the defendant?"
Terence looked sheepish.
"Where is the defendant?" repeats the clerk sharply.
"In Ireland! Bad cess to her!" answers Terence. "And divil a bit can Oi bring her forth," he murmurs, "whin she's in the ould country!"
"Forfeit the bail!" orders the judge.
Appleboy grasps the arm of the assistant.
"What's the trouble?" he asks anxiously.
"She's skipped!" answers the other with a grim laugh. "That's all."
"H—l!—I mean, thank God!" exclaims Vestryman Appleboy.
This, gentle reader, is whatmighthappen to you if your cook should steal the teapot.
CHAPTER VIII
RED TAPE
Mr. Appleboy makes his way from the court-room to the corridor of the Criminal Courts building a sadder, wiser and more chastened member of society. He now has personal knowledge of the way in which our criminal laws are enforced and some idea of the administration of criminal justice in general in New York City. He has been dragged down to the Criminal Courts building, to the district attorney's office, the grand jury room, and the General Sessions not less than a dozen times, and he now takes a solemn vow that never, if he can possibly avoid it, will he be prevailed upon to go there again.
Our defeated hero on reaching home finds Mrs. Appleboy waiting luncheon for him.
"Well, Silas," she inquires, "has that woman been convicted at last?"
Her husband laughs somewhat shamefacedly.
"No; I'm afraid she has gotten the best of us," he replies, unfolding his napkin and beaming pleasantly upon his better half. "The fact is that she has skipped her bail—gone back to Ireland."
"What!" returns Mrs. Appleboy. "Do you mean to say that that woman has been allowed to get away after you have been doing nothing, apparently, for the last six months but spend your time in those miserable court-rooms down there? It's outrageous."
"Oh, you can't help that," he replies, "so long as prisoners are admitted to bail—they have the sacred privilege, guaranteed under our Constitution, of running away."
"Rubbish!" exclaims the lady.
"And do you know," continues Appleboy, "it really is a tremendous relief to feel that I shall not have to take the witness stand and be cross-examined as to my past career by some miserable little shyster lawyer from the Tombs."
"Why, Silas," interrupts his wife sharply, "what have you been doing that you are ashamed to tell of?"
"Oh, I didn't mean that," he adds hastily, "but they ask such embarrassing questions; I might have to tell how much property I own, and then the tax collector would get after us."
"Speaking of property," continues Mrs. Appleboy, "where's the teapot?"
Appleboy gazes at her blankly. In the excitement attendant upon Maria's non-appearance in the court-room, the family heirloom had completely escaped his mind.
"I forgot all about it," confesses Appleboy.
"Silas!" cries his wife. "I should think that after all your experiences you would have had sense enough not to leave the Criminal Courts building without bringing that teapot with you. How do you know Maria hasn't taken it with her to Ireland?"
"Oh, I'm sure she hasn't," answers her husband; "it's down at the police station; they tagged it, you know, and left it in the custody of the sergeant."
"Well, hurry through your dinner," commandshis wife, "and go right down and get it. I am surprised at you."
Appleboy skips his usual demi-tasse and fragrant perfecto, the result of which omission is to leave him but half satisfied and with a feeling of incipient indigestion, and betakes himself as fast as possible to the police station, where he has last seen the teapot. Now the police station, as is a way with police stations, is located without any reference whatever to the conveniences of transportation, hence Vestryman Appleboy is obliged to walk some ten or twelve blocks towards the river after a heavy meal, and reaches his destination very much out of breath and in a distinctly ill humor. To his surprise the doorkeeper at once recalls him.
"How are you, Mr. Appleboy? Come right in," says that functionary in greeting.
"How do you do?" responds Appleboy. "I have come to get my teapot."
"Ask the sergeant about it," directs the doorman.
So Appleboy makes his way to the desk, where he is again recognized, this time by the sergeant on duty.
"Well, Mr. Appleboy," remarks the sergeant, "what became of that cook of yours? She was a bad one! I hope they convicted her."
"They did not," replies Mr. Appleboy; "they didn't even get a chance at her. She got away."
"Jumped?" inquires the sergeant with a grin.
"That's what she did," acknowledges Appleboy, "after she had kept me chasing up and down for nearly six months."
"Oh, she was a sly one," answers the sergeantsympathetically. "A little vacation up the river would have done her good."
"I suppose there's no objection to my having the teapot back, is there?"
"Sure not," answers the sergeant. "It's yours, ain't it? Of course you can have it back."
"Do you mind letting me have it then?" asks Appleboy.
"Oh, we haven't got your teapot!" exclaims the sergeant. "That was handed over to the property clerk at Police Headquarters. I suppose when the case was set for trial the pot was sent down to the district attorney's office; he's probably got it locked up in his safe,—I mean whatever assistant was going to try the case."
"Well, well," says Mr. Appleboy; "of course, I assumed it was right here, where I saw it last. What would you advise me to do?"
"Better go right down and see the assistant district attorney," says the sergeant. "Skipped her bail, did she? Well, that's a pretty good one, too!"
Although it is now three o'clock, Mr. Appleboy goes to the nearest elevated station and takes the train down town. This occupies about half an hour. He gets off at the corner of Franklin Street and walks to the Criminal Courts building. He is now thoroughly familiar with this lugubrious locality and finds the elevator without difficulty, ascending amid the usual odoriferous company to the floor upon which Mr. Smith, the assistant district attorney, has his office. Mr. Smith's door, however, is locked, and inquiry from a deaf attendant in a neighboring corridor elicits the fact that the assistant is engaged in trying a murder case in PartIV of the General Sessions. Appleboy now bethinks him of Jones and forthwith descends to the next tier of offices, but there finds to his chagrin that the latter also is trying a case.
Determined not to be thwarted by any such trifling matter, our hero takes the elevator to the second floor of the building, upon which the court-rooms are located. He first applies at Part I. The superannuated attendant at the door eyes him sharply, asks him for a subpœna, and upon his failure to produce it denies him admittance. Appleboy, naturally indignant, inquires the reason. The watchdog at the door brusquely replies that persons having no business in the court-room are not permitted to enter.
"But I want to speak to Mr. Jones."
"Well, he can't see you now, anyhow," replies the doorkeeper. "It won't do you a particle of good to go in; he's right in the middle of summing up the case to the jury."
This seems a sufficient excuse, even to our much-annoyed old gentleman, and he thereupon makes his way to the court-room in which he has been informed that Smith is disporting himself. Here he makes a second attempt to secure admission. On this occasion there is not even the question of a subpœna. No one can be admitted, because the judge is "charging the jury." The answer is definite and final.
The doorkeeper, however, is a good-natured, genial, warm-hearted Irishman, and notes with some sympathy the disappointment and chagrin of the weary little old man. Appleboy observes the benignity of the other's expression and tenders a cigar,—not what is commonly known about the buildingas a "cigar" (six for a quarter) or even a "good cigar" (a ten-center), but a bang-up, A-1, twenty-five-cent Havana, with a gorgeous coat of many colors. Being very tired he lights another for himself. The two converse amicably.
It now develops that the doorkeeper not only remembers Appleboy, but the case and the teapot, and finally, having become conversant with the entire situation, he pronounces judgment, namely, that Mr. Appleboy will find the teapot at the property clerk's office at Police Headquarters; that while it is possible that it might remain in the custody of one of the assistants, or in charge of the property clerk, attached to the district attorney's office, it is very unlikely that such is the case, since the defendant was never placed on trial. He therefore advises Appleboy to return with all haste to 300 Mulberry Street and secure the return of his property from the person there having it in charge. Appleboy is very much pleased; he begins to regard himself as quite a "mixer," while for a brief moment visions of running for mayor or perhaps for alderman hover in his mind; and after presenting the doorkeeper with a couple more Havanas he makes his way out of the building upon the Center Street side.
Appleboy supposes, as is not unnatural, that Police Headquarters must be somewhere in the immediate neighborhood of the Criminal Courts building. A laborer, in response to his question, waves his hand in a northerly direction, and Appleboy sets out, traversing what seems to him to be an interminable distance. Every one whom he addresses states that Headquarters is just a block or two farther on. Soon he finds himself on Mulberry Street; swarms oflittle children congregate upon the sidewalk and pass comments upon his appearance; Italian ladies in faded négligée look down upon him from upper windows; bunches of macaroni in a half-solidified condition stream from frame-works erected in the areas, and Appleboy shudders as he thinks of the germs wafted down the side streets and from the open windows of the tenements which must, as he believes, collect and form a thick crust upon the surface of this unattractive variety of nutriment. From time to time he crosses the street for the purpose of avoiding a fight between small boys or a group of children dancing around an organ; occasionally he is obliged to walk in the middle of the street itself. After twenty minutes he comes in sight of an inhospitable-looking structure, which, he is informed by the peanut seller upon the corner, is that for which he seeks.
"Polica Headquarta!" chatters the Italian and grins; he knows well enough what it is, and "many there be that go in thereat."
Appleboy crosses the street and ascends the steps, meeting as he does so a squad of policemen who bang open the door and come marching down in pairs. He shrinks to one side, and then timidly makes his entry. An officer in the hall inquires his business.
"I desire to see the property clerk," says Mr. Appleboy, "and to secure the return of a teapot which was stolen from me."
"The property clerk's office closes at four o'clock," says the officer; "you'll have to come to-morrow morning, at nine."
Appleboy is disgusted; he has spent what is practically an entire afternoon in the pursuit of his teapot and has accomplished nothing.
"It's outrageous," he cries; "the idea of a public office closing at four o'clock in the afternoon! What do these fellows do, I would like to know, to earn their salary? Nine to four,—pooh! Why, it isn't half a day's work."
The officer has turned on his heel and walks slowly away, leaving Mr. Appleboy fuming by the door. The corridor is musty and dark, its stone flagging worn by the tread of millions of heavily booted feet. Poor old Mr. Appleboy is very tired; the dingy windows, the gloomy corridor, the unsympathetic policeman, the noise and smells of the Italian quarter, the weary trip to the district attorney's office and to the station house have brought him almost to the verge of tears. He is ashamed to go home and tell his wife that he has accomplished nothing,—he has not evenseenthe teapot. Feeling very small indeed Appleboy pushes open the door and passes out upon Mulberry Street. No one notices him; in this official world a bank president is but a unit among the countless multitudes of the public. He stumbles into a subway train, seeks sanctuary in his club and takes a Turkish bath.
Let us pass over the painful scene upon the return of Appleboy teapotless. His lady is hardly to be blamed for showing irritation over her husband's failure to recover that interesting relic and valuable domestic adjunct. She knows she could have done much better herself. At any rate she would not now calmly return home from the court with the humiliating admission that the prisoner had escaped and that the teapot had disappeared. Things are veryunpleasant that evening, and no suggestion on the part of Appleboy that they go to the theatre or the opera will bring a smile over the features of his irate spouse.
The next morning Mr. Appleboy is up betimes. He does not wait for his wife to come down to breakfast, but pours himself a cup of coffee and snatches a roll at the sideboard. A quarter to nine finds him at Police Headquarters. In the clear morning sunshine the building does not look so repellent, and he trots up the steps, pushes open the door, and, avoiding his adversary of the afternoon before, saunters nonchalantly down the corridor until he sees a small door at the top of a couple of steps bearing the legend, "Property Clerk's Office."
The property clerk, whoever he is, is already there. Appleboy finds himself in a small room divided by a wire grating; this has a small opening through which he is obliged to converse with the official in charge.
"I have come to get a teapot which was stolen from me," explains Appleboy.
"What is the state of the case?" inquires the property clerk.
"The thief has forfeited his, I mean her, bail," replies our hero.
"What was her name?"
"Maria Holohan."
"When did she steal the teapot?"
"Last June."
"Where did you last see the teapot?" asks the clerk.
"At the station house, with a tag on it," Appleboy replies.
"Well, what makes you think we have it?" asks the clerk.
"Why, the policeman down at the court-room told me that you kept all the property which was retained as evidence," answers Appleboy.