by Theodore Dreiser 32 страница

that? Had he ever asked for a check like that so quick before in his

life? In all the history of these nefarious transactions was there

another incident like that? You know there wasn't. He had never before,

on any occasion, asked personally for a check for anything in this

office, and yet on this occasion he did it. Why? Why should he ask for

it this time? A few hours more, according to his own statement, wouldn't

have made any difference one way or the other, would it? He could have

sent a boy for it, as usual. That was the way it had always been done

before. Why anything different now? I'll tell you why! [Shannon suddenly

shouted, varying his voice tremendously.] I'll tell you why! He knew

that he was a ruined man! He knew that his last semi-legitimate avenue

of escape--the favor of George W. Stener--had been closed to him! He

knew that honestly, by open agreement, he could not extract another

single dollar from the treasury of the city of Philadelphia. He knew

that if he left the office without this check and sent a boy for it, the

aroused city treasurer would have time to inform his clerks, and

that then no further money could be obtained. That's why! That's why,

gentlemen, if you really want to know.

"Now, gentlemen of the jury, I am about done with my arraignment of this

fine, honorable, virtuous citizen whom the counsel for the defense,

Mr. Steger, tells you you cannot possibly convict without doing a

great injustice. All I have to say is that you look to me like sane,

intelligent men--just the sort of men that I meet everywhere in the

ordinary walks of life, doing an honorable American business in

an honorable American way. Now, gentlemen of the jury [he was very

soft-spoken now], all I have to say is that if, after all you have heard

and seen here to-day, you still think that Mr. Frank A. Cowperwood is

an honest, honorable man--that he didn't steal, willfully and knowingly,

sixty thousand dollars from the Philadelphia city treasury; that he had

actually bought the certificates he said he had, and had intended to put

them in the sinking-fund, as he said he did, then don't you dare to do

anything except turn him loose, and that speedily, so that he can go

on back to-day into Third Street, and start to straighten out his

much-entangled financial affairs. It is the only thing for honest,

conscientious men to do--to turn him instantly loose into the heart of

this community, so that some of the rank injustice that my opponent, Mr.

Steger, alleges has been done him will be a little made up to him. You

owe him, if that is the way you feel, a prompt acknowledgment of his

innocence. Don't worry about George W. Stener. His guilt is established

by his own confession. He admits he is guilty. He will be sentenced

without trial later on. But this man--he says he is an honest, honorable

man. He says he didn't think he was going to fail. He says he used all

that threatening, compelling, terrifying language, not because he was

in danger of failing, but because he didn't want the bother of looking

further for aid. What do you think? Do you really think that he

had purchased sixty thousand dollars more of certificates for the

sinking-fund, and that he was entitled to the money? If so, why didn't

he put them in the sinking-fund? They're not there now, and the sixty

thousand dollars is gone. Who got it? The Girard National Bank, where he

was overdrawn to the extent of one hundred thousand dollars! Did it get

it and forty thousand dollars more in other checks and certificates?

Certainly. Why? Do you suppose the Girard National Bank might be in any

way grateful for this last little favor before he closed his doors? Do

you think that President Davison, whom you saw here testifying so kindly

in this case feels at all friendly, and that that may possibly--I

don't say that it does--explain his very kindly interpretation of Mr.

Cowperwood's condition? It might be. You can think as well along that

line as I can. Anyhow, gentlemen, President Davison says Mr. Cowperwood

is an honorable, honest man, and so does his counsel, Mr. Steger. You

have heard the testimony. Now you think it over. If you want to turn him

loose--turn him loose. [He waved his hand wearily.] You're the judges.

I wouldn't; but then I am merely a hard-working lawyer--one person, one

opinion. You may think differently--that's your business. [He waved his

hand suggestively, almost contemptuously.] However, I'm through, and I

thank you for your courtesy. Gentlemen, the decision rests with you."

He turned away grandly, and the jury stirred--so did the idle spectators

in the court. Judge Payderson sighed a sigh of relief. It was now quite

dark, and the flaring gas forms in the court were all brightly lighted.

Outside one could see that it was snowing. The judge stirred among his

papers wearily, and turning to the jurors solemnly, began his customary

explanation of the law, after which they filed out to the jury-room.

Cowperwood turned to his father who now came over across the

fast-emptying court, and said:

"Well, we'll know now in a little while."

"Yes," replied Cowperwood, Sr., a little wearily. "I hope it comes out

right. I saw Butler back there a little while ago."

"Did you?" queried Cowperwood, to whom this had a peculiar interest.

"Yes," replied his father. "He's just gone."

So, Cowperwood thought, Butler was curious enough as to his fate to want

to come here and watch him tried. Shannon was his tool. Judge Payderson

was his emissary, in a way. He, Cowperwood, might defeat him in the

matter of his daughter, but it was not so easy to defeat him here

unless the jury should happen to take a sympathetic attitude. They might

convict him, and then Butler's Judge Payderson would have the privilege

of sentencing him--giving him the maximum sentence. That would not be so

nice--five years! He cooled a little as he thought of it, but there was

no use worrying about what had not yet happened. Steger came forward and

told him that his bail was now ended--had been the moment the jury left

the room--and that he was at this moment actually in the care of

the sheriff, of whom he knew--Sheriff Adlai Jaspers. Unless he were

acquitted by the jury, Steger added, he would have to remain in the

sheriff's care until an application for a certificate of reasonable

doubt could be made and acted upon.

"It would take all of five days, Frank," Steger said, "but Jaspers isn't

a bad sort. He'd be reasonable. Of course if we're lucky you won't have

to visit him. You will have to go with this bailiff now, though. Then if

things come out right we'll go home. Say, I'd like to win this case,"

he said. "I'd like to give them the laugh and see you do it. I consider

you've been pretty badly treated, and I think I made that perfectly

clear. I can reverse this verdict on a dozen grounds if they happen to

decide against you."

He and Cowperwood and the latter's father now stalked off with the

sheriff's subordinate--a small man by the name of "Eddie" Zanders, who

had approached to take charge. They entered a small room called the pen

at the back of the court, where all those on trial whose liberty had

been forfeited by the jury's leaving the room had to wait pending its

return. It was a dreary, high-ceiled, four-square place, with a window

looking out into Chestnut Street, and a second door leading off into

somewhere--one had no idea where. It was dingy, with a worn wooden

floor, some heavy, plain, wooden benches lining the four sides, no

pictures or ornaments of any kind. A single two-arm gas-pipe descended

from the center of the ceiling. It was permeated by a peculiarly stale

and pungent odor, obviously redolent of all the flotsam and jetsam of

life--criminal and innocent--that had stood or sat in here from time to

time, waiting patiently to learn what a deliberating fate held in store.

Cowperwood was, of course, disgusted; but he was too self-reliant

and capable to show it. All his life he had been immaculate, almost

fastidious in his care of himself. Here he was coming, perforce, in

contact with a form of life which jarred upon him greatly. Steger, who

was beside him, made some comforting, explanatory, apologetic remarks.

"Not as nice as it might be," he said, "but you won't mind waiting a

little while. The jury won't be long, I fancy."

"That may not help me," he replied, walking to the window. Afterward he

added: "What must be, must be."

His father winced. Suppose Frank was on the verge of a long prison term,

which meant an atmosphere like this? Heavens! For a moment, he trembled,

then for the first time in years he made a silent prayer.

Chapter XLIV

Meanwhile the great argument had been begun in the jury-room, and all

the points that had been meditatively speculated upon in the jury-box

were now being openly discussed.

It is amazingly interesting to see how a jury will waver and speculate

in a case like this--how curious and uncertain is the process by which

it makes up its so-called mind. So-called truth is a nebulous thing at

best; facts are capable of such curious inversion and interpretation,

honest and otherwise. The jury had a strongly complicated problem before

it, and it went over it and over it.

Juries reach not so much definite conclusions as verdicts, in a curious

fashion and for curious reasons. Very often a jury will have concluded

little so far as its individual members are concerned and yet it will

have reached a verdict. The matter of time, as all lawyers know, plays

a part in this. Juries, speaking of the members collectively and

frequently individually, object to the amount of time it takes to decide

a case. They do not enjoy sitting and deliberating over a problem unless

it is tremendously fascinating. The ramifications or the mystery of a

syllogism can become a weariness and a bore. The jury-room itself may

and frequently does become a dull agony.

On the other hand, no jury contemplates a disagreement with any degree

of satisfaction. There is something so inherently constructive in the

human mind that to leave a problem unsolved is plain misery. It haunts

the average individual like any other important task left unfinished.

Men in a jury-room, like those scientifically demonstrated atoms of a

crystal which scientists and philosophers love to speculate upon, like

finally to arrange themselves into an orderly and artistic whole, to

present a compact, intellectual front, to be whatever they have set out

to be, properly and rightly--a compact, sensible jury. One sees this

same instinct magnificently displayed in every other phase of nature--in

the drifting of sea-wood to the Sargasso Sea, in the geometric

interrelation of air-bubbles on the surface of still water, in the

marvelous unreasoned architecture of so many insects and atomic forms

which make up the substance and the texture of this world. It would seem

as though the physical substance of life--this apparition of form which

the eye detects and calls real were shot through with some vast subtlety

that loves order, that is order. The atoms of our so-called being, in

spite of our so-called reason--the dreams of a mood--know where to go

and what to do. They represent an order, a wisdom, a willing that is not

of us. They build orderly in spite of us. So the subconscious spirit

of a jury. At the same time, one does not forget the strange hypnotic

effect of one personality on another, the varying effects of varying

types on each other, until a solution--to use the word in its purely

chemical sense--is reached. In a jury-room the thought or determination

of one or two or three men, if it be definite enough, is likely to

pervade the whole room and conquer the reason or the opposition of the

majority. One man "standing out" for the definite thought that is in him

is apt to become either the triumphant leader of a pliant mass or the

brutally battered target of a flaming, concentrated intellectual fire.

Men despise dull opposition that is without reason. In a jury-room, of

all places, a man is expected to give a reason for the faith that is in

him--if one is demanded. It will not do to say, "I cannot agree." Jurors

have been known to fight. Bitter antagonisms lasting for years have been

generated in these close quarters. Recalcitrant jurors have been hounded

commercially in their local spheres for their unreasoned oppositions or

conclusions.

After reaching the conclusion that Cowperwood unquestionably deserved

some punishment, there was wrangling as to whether the verdict should be

guilty on all four counts, as charged in the indictment. Since they did

not understand how to differentiate between the various charges very

well, they decided it should be on all four, and a recommendation to

mercy added. Afterward this last was eliminated, however; either he was

guilty or he was not. The judge could see as well as they could all the

extenuating circumstances--perhaps better. Why tie his hands? As a rule

no attention was paid to such recommendations, anyhow, and it only made

the jury look wabbly.

So, finally, at ten minutes after twelve that night, they were ready to

return a verdict; and Judge Payderson, who, because of his interest in

the case and the fact that he lived not so far away, had decided to wait

up this long, was recalled. Steger and Cowperwood were sent for.

The court-room was fully lighted. The bailiff, the clerk, and the

stenographer were there. The jury filed in, and Cowperwood, with Steger

at his right, took his position at the gate which gave into the railed

space where prisoners always stand to hear the verdict and listen to any

commentary of the judge. He was accompanied by his father, who was very

nervous.

For the first time in his life he felt as though he were walking in

his sleep. Was this the real Frank Cowperwood of two months before--so

wealthy, so progressive, so sure? Was this only December 5th or 6th now

(it was after midnight)? Why was it the jury had deliberated so long?

What did it mean? Here they were now, standing and gazing solemnly

before them; and here now was Judge Payderson, mounting the steps of his

rostrum, his frizzled hair standing out in a strange, attractive

way, his familiar bailiff rapping for order. He did not look at

Cowperwood--it would not be courteous--but at the jury, who gazed at him

in return. At the words of the clerk, "Gentlemen of the jury, have you

agreed upon a verdict?" the foreman spoke up, "We have."

"Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?"

"We find the defendant guilty as charged in the indictment."

How had they come to do this? Because he had taken a check for sixty

thousand dollars which did not belong to him? But in reality it did.

Good Lord, what was sixty thousand dollars in the sum total of all the

money that had passed back and forth between him and George W. Stener?

Nothing, nothing! A mere bagatelle in its way; and yet here it had

risen up, this miserable, insignificant check, and become a mountain of

opposition, a stone wall, a prison-wall barring his further progress. It

was astonishing. He looked around him at the court-room. How large and

bare and cold it was! Still he was Frank A. Cowperwood. Why should he

let such queer thoughts disturb him? His fight for freedom and privilege

and restitution was not over yet. Good heavens! It had only begun. In

five days he would be out again on bail. Steger would take an appeal.

He would be out, and he would have two long months in which to make an

additional fight. He was not down yet. He would win his liberty. This

jury was all wrong. A higher court would say so. It would reverse their

verdict, and he knew it. He turned to Steger, where the latter was

having the clerk poll the jury, in the hope that some one juror had been

over-persuaded, made to vote against his will.

"Is that your verdict?" he heard the clerk ask of Philip Moultrie, juror

No. 1.

"It is," replied that worthy, solemnly.

"Is that your verdict?" The clerk was pointing to Simon Glassberg.

"Yes, sir."

"Is that your verdict?" He pointed to Fletcher Norton.

"Yes."

So it went through the whole jury. All the men answered firmly and

clearly, though Steger thought it might barely be possible that one

would have changed his mind. The judge thanked them and told them that

in view of their long services this night, they were dismissed for the

term. The only thing remaining to be done now was for Steger to persuade

Judge Payderson to grant a stay of sentence pending the hearing of a

motion by the State Supreme Court for a new trial.

The Judge looked at Cowperwood very curiously as Steger made this

request in proper form, and owing to the importance of the case and

the feeling he had that the Supreme Court might very readily grant

a certificate of reasonable doubt in this case, he agreed. There was

nothing left, therefore, but for Cowperwood to return at this late hour

with the deputy sheriff to the county jail, where he must now remain for

five days at least--possibly longer.

The jail in question, which was known locally as Moyamensing Prison,

was located at Tenth and Reed Streets, and from an architectural and

artistic point of view was not actually displeasing to the eye. It

consisted of a central portion--prison, residence for the sheriff or

what you will--three stories high, with a battlemented cornice and a

round battlemented tower about one-third as high as the central portion

itself, and two wings, each two stories high, with battlemented turrets

at either end, giving it a highly castellated and consequently, from the

American point of view, a very prison-like appearance. The facade of the

prison, which was not more than thirty-five feet high for the central

portion, nor more than twenty-five feet for the wings, was set back at

least a hundred feet from the street, and was continued at either end,

from the wings to the end of the street block, by a stone wall all of

twenty feet high. The structure was not severely prison-like, for the

central portion was pierced by rather large, unbarred apertures hung on

the two upper stories with curtains, and giving the whole front a

rather pleasant and residential air. The wing to the right, as one stood

looking in from the street, was the section known as the county jail

proper, and was devoted to the care of prisoners serving short-term

sentences on some judicial order. The wing to the left was devoted

exclusively to the care and control of untried prisoners. The whole

building was built of a smooth, light-colored stone, which on a snowy

night like this, with the few lamps that were used in it glowing

feebly in the dark, presented an eery, fantastic, almost supernatural

appearance.

It was a rough and blowy night when Cowperwood started for this

institution under duress. The wind was driving the snow before it in

curious, interesting whirls. Eddie Zanders, the sheriff's deputy on

guard at the court of Quarter Sessions, accompanied him and his father

and Steger. Zanders was a little man, dark, with a short, stubby

mustache, and a shrewd though not highly intelligent eye. He was anxious

first to uphold his dignity as a deputy sheriff, which was a very

important position in his estimation, and next to turn an honest penny

if he could. He knew little save the details of his small world, which

consisted of accompanying prisoners to and from the courts and the

jails, and seeing that they did not get away. He was not unfriendly to

a particular type of prisoner--the well-to-do or moderately

prosperous--for he had long since learned that it paid to be so.

To-night he offered a few sociable suggestions--viz., that it was rather

rough, that the jail was not so far but that they could walk, and that

Sheriff Jaspers would, in all likelihood, be around or could be aroused.

Cowperwood scarcely heard. He was thinking of his mother and his wife

and of Aileen.

When the jail was reached he was led to the central portion, as it was

here that the sheriff, Adlai Jaspers, had his private office. Jaspers

had recently been elected to office, and was inclined to conform to all

outward appearances, in so far as the proper conduct of his office was

concerned, without in reality inwardly conforming. Thus it was generally

known among the politicians that one way he had of fattening his rather

lean salary was to rent private rooms and grant special privileges to

prisoners who had the money to pay for the same. Other sheriffs had done

it before him. In fact, when Jaspers was inducted into office, several

prisoners were already enjoying these privileges, and it was not a part

of his scheme of things to disturb them. The rooms that he let to the

"right parties," as he invariably put it, were in the central portion

of the jail, where were his own private living quarters. They were

unbarred, and not at all cell-like. There was no particular danger of

escape, for a guard stood always at his private door instructed "to

keep an eye" on the general movements of all the inmates. A prisoner so

accommodated was in many respects quite a free person. His meals were

served to him in his room, if he wished. He could read or play cards, or

receive guests; and if he had any favorite musical instrument, that was

not denied him. There was just one rule that had to be complied with. If

he were a public character, and any newspaper men called, he had to be

brought down-stairs into the private interviewing room in order that

they might not know that he was not confined in a cell like any other

prisoner.

Nearly all of these facts had been brought to Cowperwood's attention

beforehand by Steger; but for all that, when he crossed the threshold of

the jail a peculiar sensation of strangeness and defeat came over him.

He and his party were conducted to a little office to the left of

the entrance, where were only a desk and a chair, dimly lighted by

a low-burning gas-jet. Sheriff Jaspers, rotund and ruddy, met them,

greeting them in quite a friendly way. Zanders was dismissed, and went

briskly about his affairs.

"A bad night, isn't it?" observed Jaspers, turning up the gas and

preparing to go through the routine of registering his prisoner. Steger

came over and held a short, private conversation with him in his corner,

over his desk which resulted presently in the sheriff's face lighting

up.

"Oh, certainly, certainly! That's all right, Mr. Steger, to be sure!

Why, certainly!"

Cowperwood, eyeing the fat sheriff from his position, understood what

it was all about. He had regained completely his critical attitude, his

cool, intellectual poise. So this was the jail, and this was the fat

mediocrity of a sheriff who was to take care of him. Very good. He

would make the best of it. He wondered whether he was to be

searched--prisoners usually were--but he soon discovered that he was not

to be.

"That's all right, Mr. Cowperwood," said Jaspers, getting up. "I guess

I can make you comfortable, after a fashion. We're not running a hotel

here, as you know"--he chuckled to himself--"but I guess I can make you

comfortable. John," he called to a sleepy factotum, who appeared from

another room, rubbing his eyes, "is the key to Number Six down here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let me have it."

John disappeared and returned, while Steger explained to Cowperwood that

anything he wanted in the way of clothing, etc., could be brought in.

Steger himself would stop round next morning and confer with him, as

would any of the members of Cowperwood's family whom he wished to see.

Cowperwood immediately explained to his father his desire for as little

of this as possible. Joseph or Edward might come in the morning and

bring a grip full of underwear, etc.; but as for the others, let them

wait until he got out or had to remain permanently. He did think of

writing Aileen, cautioning her to do nothing; but the sheriff now

beckoned, and he quietly followed. Accompanied by his father and Steger,

he ascended to his new room.

It was a simple, white-walled chamber fifteen by twenty feet in size,

rather high-ceiled, supplied with a high-backed, yellow wooden bed,

a yellow bureau, a small imitation-cherry table, three very ordinary

cane-seated chairs with carved hickory-rod backs, cherry-stained also,

and a wash-stand of yellow-stained wood to match the bed, containing

a washbasin, a pitcher, a soap-dish, uncovered, and a small, cheap,

pink-flowered tooth and shaving brush mug, which did not match the

other ware and which probably cost ten cents. The value of this room

to Sheriff Jaspers was what he could get for it in cases like

this--twenty-five to thirty-five dollars a week. Cowperwood would pay

thirty-five.

Cowperwood walked briskly to the window, which gave out on the lawn in

front, now embedded in snow, and said he thought this was all right.

Both his father and Steger were willing and anxious to confer with him

for hours, if he wished; but there was nothing to say. He did not wish

to talk.

"Let Ed bring in some fresh linen in the morning and a couple of suits

of clothes, and I will be all right. George can get my things together."

He was referring to a family servant who acted as valet and in other

capacities. "Tell Lillian not to worry. I'm all right. I'd rather she

would not come here so long as I'm going to be out in five days. If I'm

not, it will be time enough then. Kiss the kids for me." And he smiled

good-naturedly.

After his unfulfilled predictions in regard to the result of this

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