V The Quality of Justice
A young man sitting at the counsel table, and grown diffident the moment he finds himself on his feet, rises to address the court.
“If the court pleases,” he begins, and the court awakes with a start from a revery of dinner.
“Eh? Who is he?” the court whispers to the district attorney.
The officer scowls back and answers that he does not know.
The young man has heard.
“I am John Forrest, if the court pleases, admitted yesterday.”
“Precisely, sir,” smiles the court, icily; “but you are interrupting the trial of a cause. Your motion will have to wait until it is concluded—unless it is imperative.”
“It is imperative,” says the young lawyer.
“Ah, then, proceed,” says the judge, “and pray be brief.”
“I ask leave to conduct the defence of the prisoner. I know him—I know his language—I believe him innocent.”
The prosecuting officer leaps to his feet.
“What this extraordinary young gentleman believes is of no consequence to us, your honor. Let him appear for the prisoner—if the prisoner wishes to have it so. I should consider it extra hazardous. The constitution countenances this sort of aberration, however, so I suppose we must suffer it—though the case is at an end.”
The district attorney calculates that he will be a half-hour late at the links. The court nods his assent, and takes up the fascinating menu which has been sent over to him from the Union League, to whet his appetite upon. He will dine there to-night with the witty Grover Club.
The young lawyer has addressed a few words to the prisoner and has taken his hand. Instantly the inert head rises. The fires of life and hope once more light the eyes for an instant. His tongue is loosed. He is the Viking again—the lion at bay. The young lawyer assures him with the overconfidence of youth that all will be well. That they have proved nothing.
At once the eyes are dull again, the head droops as before.
“Ah, they! It is the doom of God. They are only instruments of God. I do not hate them. I hate them no more than I should hate the axe of the executioner. Last night—and, yea, for many nights I saw Estan, the priest. I heard him say again: ‘I do fear the things that will come upon thee and our land!’ Go! It is the doom of God!”
At this moment the district attorney, seeing his time for golf being dissipated, says to the court:
“If your honor pleases, unless the defence is ready to proceed at once, I shall ask your honor to give the case to the jury on its default.”
Forrest takes his place.
“I recall all the witnesses for the Commonwealth for cross-examination,” says the young lawyer to the court.
“Object!” shouts the district attorney, on his feet at once. “The prisoner failed to take advantage of this right when it was offered to him and his counsel sat idly by. It is too late now. I won’t try the case all over again.”
“I think,” says the smiling court, “that I shall permit this. It is not your right, sir,”—to the counsel for the prisoner—“but the easiest way is the best, in law as well as—elsewhere.”
He smiles down upon the district attorney, as if he were saying:
“You will get your game the sooner, I will get my dinner hot.”
“Proceed!” is all the officer of the Commonwealth has to say.
It is the young counsel’s first examination of a witness.
“Officer Gorman,” he says, with a child’s savagery, “yi—you were here—bif—before?”
“Sure!” answers the officer, with a grin, and now the gentlemen of the bar laugh with the benchers, and even the court lays down the gilt menu and smiles broadly.
But, these things are good. They crowd upon the young champion of the prisoner a tremendous sense of the responsibility he has assumed. He addresses the court foolishly but seriously:
“I shall beg in advance the indulgence of the court. I have never before tried a case. I shall make some blunders in trying this one. But, sir, I have undertaken, here, upon the instant, without preparation, the defence of that priceless thing—a man’s liberty—nay, his life! For he is sick and hopeless unto death. And, unless he is taken from this court to an hospital, upon our hands will be not only his liberty but his life. Sir, I have been taught, I am sure this court has been taught, before it ascended the three steps which lead to the bench, that liberty is a holy thing. That it is a nobler quest, in this forum, to stand its champion than in that other to contend for those priceful things which may be measured in money. Am I wrong, sir, to do this? Do the gentlemen of the bar laugh for that reason? If they laugh at me, in God’s name let them do so. But, let no one laugh at such a solemn spectacle as this—Look! Look at the man! Look about! Was ever man save He that suffered on the cross so friendless and alone? such a stranger among strangers?”
“Proceed!” shouts the district attorney.
The court nods in assent.
“When your opportunity comes, Mr.—Mr.—”
“Forrest,” prompts the lawyer.
“—to address the jury, they may be interested in—er—your views—upon—er—liberty. The court—has—er—heard them often. Proceed, sir, with your witness.”
Under this brutality John Forrest has become the steady practitioner of a dozen years.
“You know nothing about this watch, or its taking?”
“No.”
“Then why did you arrest him?”
“On complaint of Mr. Hall.”
“You had no warrant?”
“No.”
The lawyer turns to the court.
“Upon the testimony of the man who made the arrest it was an illegal seizure. He must have had a warrant unless he saw the commission of the offence. I move his discharge from custody.”
“Object,” said the district attorney, and the court instantly rules the objection sustained.
“Proceed, sir.”
“Then, I ask the court to rule upon the question of whether or not the prisoner was justified in resisting an illegal arrest.”
The district attorney objects again, and the court again frankly sustains him. The easiest way is certainly being proved the best—for him.
Nothing is developed from the other witnesses, who repeat their testimony. The prosecutor remembers distinctly having his watch, though he knew nothing of its taking.
Then the young champion puts the prisoner upon the stand. Now, if God’s pity ever descends to temper the rigor of human judgment, here is its invocation—
His story is little and simple as his counsel translates it.
He had arrived in the city three days before. He gave a runner his last money to procure him work, but he did not return. And he waited and hungered and walked the streets, neither sleeping nor eating. He staggered against the prosecutor—yes—blindly—in an agony—he apologized—but the man called out—officers came—they shot at him—he fell—and then he opened his eyes as they saw him—bloody—maimed in a prison—
Then there is something which the young attorney hesitates to translate until he is charged with concealing testimony which will injure his case:
“‘It is the doom of God,’” he repeats then. “‘God meant me to stay and die in the ice. But I defied His purposes and came here. God is taking His vengeance. It is useless. These things are come upon me and my country because of sin. I must suffer them. They must. It is the doom of God!’”
“Oh! Is he THAT sort?” laughs the district attorney, and the benchers laugh with him.
The court declines to be amused. It takes time to be amused. And he has none to spare—before dinner.
The prosecuting officer, with a significant smile, declines to cross-examine, and so far as the Commonwealth is concerned, submits the case without argument to the jury. His assistant questions the propriety of this.
“Always wins,” he laughs. “The jury think either that it is not worth while, or that I think it safe, and agree accordingly. Juries haven’t much mind, you know. Besides, think of those idle golf sticks!” They laugh together. “And, further, it will flabbergast the doughty champion of the foreign gentleman. He won’t know how to begin—since he will have nothing of mine to answer or suggest.”