Chapter III: Part 3

But there came a time when Sister Xavier brought him an Italian Bible and catechism, and Larry Priori taught him to read them. Then Shorty was a different creature. He became a man—quiet, considerate, industrious, and we respected him. About this time came a letter and photograph from Italy—from home. They read the letter to Shorty—he could not read writing as yet—they gave him the photograph because it was not a tintype. You may not possess a tintype in the Death-Chamber. A man once cut his throat with a picture of his mother; they have been more careful since. The picture had been taken by a rural artist in some little mountain town. Shall I ever forget it? On a gilt chair—no, a throne—sat his mother in peasant dress. I only remember that she had on white stockings and congress gaiters, and that the elastics on the sides of them were worn out. She must have weighed a ton, and evidently was frightened to death. Perhaps the camera _was_ an “evil eye.” The father on one side looked a hundred and fifty years old. He must have toiled every moment of it. Oh, the sister on the other side of the mother, how hideous she is! But listen: that the good saints might be pleased to look with pity upon her brother at the other end of the earth (the letter said this), his sister walked to and from church every day—barefooted. “It’s about eight miles away,” sobbed Shorty. “Let me see the picture again. It looks different to me now.” Shorty wept; Shorty howled; Shorty prayed to the picture. He covered the back of it with soap, pressed it against the wall, and knelt before it.

Humor and agony are near neighbors in the Death-Chamber. From Italy had come one hundred dollars; all his family possessed. This was to be used in arguing the appeal. It was forwarded to an Italian banker in New York to Shorty’s credit. It was then, and not till then, that Shorty’s brother appeared. All Shorty had to do was to sign a paper. The brother had the paper all ready, and the keeper brought a pen. Well, I guess _not_! Have you forgotten about the three hundred dollars and the other paper Shorty signed? Shorty hadn’t. While there was breath in his body he would not sign another paper. It was “lie business.” Then the brother explained it all over again, the keepers explained, and the “P. K.,” meaning principal keeper, came with an interpreter and explained many times over that it was for a trial, lawyer; trial, lawyer. “Don’t you see, Shorty?”

Shorty stood with his short legs apart, hands behind him, pipe in the corner of his mouth, and eyes half closed, listening to all they had to say.

“Throw away lawyer,” remarked Shorty.

“Yes, yes, Shorty, but he’d use it to get you a new trial.”

“I had trial. See?” urged he of small stature.

“No, no, Shorty; a _new_ trial—_new_—_new_!”

“They give new trial? Yes?” Shorty was delighted.

“I don’t know,” said the P. K.

“I wait,” said Shorty, and dismissed them all.

An Italian lawyer came, engaged in a conversation lasting hours, which sounded like a battle royal between ten thousand enraged parrots; he departed in tears. An Italian priest came, prayed strenuously, and went away. The one hundred dollars remained in the bank. Shorty would not sign a paper to save his life. It’s bad luck to put your name to a paper, _very_ bad luck, indeed.

In the course of time (a very long time) Shorty’s case reached the Court of Appeals, and the Court of Appeals decided against Shorty. This made Shorty furious. He explained that he had been convicted again; that he had not been present, an outrage; that no witness had spoken for him; that no one had “said the word.” Why didn’t they send for him, for the witnesses? Why? a _thousand_ whys? No one was ever able to make him understand.

Again the brother came. Shorty was going to the “good heaven,” he would not need the one hundred dollars, but his “loving brother” could use it in his business; would he sign the paper?

“No! no—no!” said Shorty. Beads of rich perspiration stood out on “loving brother’s” forehead. “Loving brother” had spent much money; there was the Italian lawyer, the priest, the carfare, the paper. Loving brother’s grief was piteous to see. For the sake of the dear _Dio_, would Shorty sign the paper? No! no—no! Then Shorty might go to the eternal bad place. Loving brother left and came no more.

Benjamin asked Shorty why he did not give the money to his brother.

“No!” said Shorty.

“What _in hell_ is yer going to do with it?” asked Benjamin.

“No-a hell,” replied Shorty. “Heaven! Go wash your face.”

Larry’s time drew near. Shorty’s chum and teacher was to go out through the “little door” and be killed. How Shorty prayed for him! But prayers are not _always_ answered in the Death-Chamber. Larry said good-by to us and departed; seven others have bidden me good-by. And now there was no one for Shorty to talk to in his mother tongue.

Shorty’s time drew near, the day was fixed. Loving brother wrote to him, there was much news in the letter. The girl over in Jersey, whom Shorty always spoke of as “my wife,” had married another. The couple, her father, and the mutual friends who had brought Shorty to call so long ago and Shorty’s brother were going to buy a keg and have a picnic on a certain day, the same day that Shorty looked ahead to on his calendar, and— The picnic was to be in honor of that event.

It was just after this letter that Shorty’s eyes went way back into his head. Shorty ate little or nothing. Those terrible prison lines began to cut into Shorty’s face. Every day they grew deeper, starting at the eyes, carving furrows to each end of the mouth, and extending to the chin. They divided Shorty’s face into three ghastly panels. Shorty’s skin was turning clay color—and why not? Shorty will soon be—dust. He got thin; you could almost see through Shorty’s hands.

Shorty prayed night and day, crawling up and down his cell on his hands and knees, kissing the floor, licking the feet of the crucifix they had given him. All night long, all night long he did this. We who lay awake and tried to read heard him mumbling as the beads dropped through his fingers; heard the tap, tap, tap of his forehead on the floor, repeated hundreds of times before each of the many pictures of the saints which were stuck up on the walls. In front of each of these pictures were little fly-covered heaps of decaying food—Shorty’s votive offering to the good saints. The saints never accepted the offerings, but the flies and roaches did. They came by millions, flying and crawling to devour it; they covered the walls of Shorty’s cell; they covered Shorty. The saints, in gorgeous crimson and blue robes, with their mitres, crooks, and uplifted fingers regarded Shorty. Their eyes followed him about wherever he knelt. Perhaps they will save Shorty’s soul, but they do not drive away the flies.

Shorty’s brown knees came through his trousers, the toes of Shorty’s slippers turned up like cotton hooks from kneeling, kneeling, all day long, all night long.

The priest noticed these things, heard the account of Shorty’s nocturnal devotions, and told him to stop them, for he realized then—what we had known long before—that the strain had been too much for Shorty’s intellect—that Shorty was insane. But Shorty prayed on, harder than ever. The good Sisters and the priest did all they could to moderate his devotions. During those final weeks we noticed that they besought him to do something; what, it was a mystery to us. Finally the morning came—the _last_ morning.

The priest blessed him, and as they opened the cell-door in the early morning for the last time, asked him, “Do you forgive _your enemies_?” then pleaded “you _must_ do it. Say ‘_yes_,’ for _God’s_ sake say _yes_. You must, or God will not—” The priest was weeping now.

“_No! no—no!_” screamed Shorty, as they marched him away.

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_CHAPTER XVI_

_An Opinion on Expert Opinion (with special regard to the testimony of Experts in Handwriting)_

The law admits opinion evidence by experts under certain conditions. This is doubtless right when such experts qualify as _specialists_ who have prepared themselves by recognized methods regarding some department of science, art, or industry; and when their testimony is confined to stating facts and deductions only, omitting all abstract speculations.

The admission of such testimony is, doubtless, necessary. The fields of science, art, and industry are enormous; and in each, one man during one life can only hope to acquire thorough knowledge of one small part of his particular enclosure. Hence “specialties” have arisen—the one lifework of one man. Specialties represent a movement of “from the general to the particular.” In the field of science, for instance, is the department of surgery; and of all kinds of surgeons is one particular specialist, the dentist. So in art, music is but a little part of all art, and the violinist but a specialist in music. Industry classifies into business and agriculture, each in turn susceptible of innumerable sub-divisions, each a specialty. By this arrangement it is seen that almost every man is to some degree a specialist, or should be one; therefore, when particular information is required it must be sought from the specialist. We seek to appropriate his experience, and naturally turn in our inquiry to those who seem best qualified to supply our wants. The true expert should be, then, a very particular specialist. In the field of industry and art we should require that he be experienced and successful. In science, that he possess definite knowledge—exactness.

So far, no complaint whatever can be made against the employment of experts (specialists). It is a necessary thing; it occurs every day in everyday life, and their testimony is very properly allowed in criminal and other court proceedings. But it is undoubtedly wrong when used unjustly; as, for instance, by the State or a very rich man against an opponent too poor to protect himself—and the testimony of experts in handwriting is often so used. It is especially unjust when an expert on a scientific subject holds no other commission or diploma than one bestowed upon him by—himself—an expert in handwriting has no other.

No one would employ a self-instructed physician, retain a self-taught lawyer, or a chemist who never went to school; in fact, the self-educated are almost excluded from the higher professions.

Consider the formal course of study necessary to become a physician, a minister, or lawyer—schools and all their examinations, the four years in college, and all the examinations pertinent thereto, and then the special post-graduate courses at schools of law, medicine, or divinity. We trust and respect these professions, because we know of their preparation; this is their guarantee. They are tested over and over again to see if they can do their work. Only then do they obtain diplomas. We require this very thing from our engineers, firemen, coal miners, and accountants before they are granted a license. But the handwriting expert passes no examinations, and possesses no diploma. He need not even procure a license.

The expert in handwriting may have your life, liberty, and fortune in his hands; but he comes from—where? Who taught him? Who has tested or examined him as to his knowledge and accuracy? Think of it! The right to swear away the life, or liberty, or property of another is bestowed upon this class of “experts” by themselves. And the law permits it. Where do this class of “experts” study their “science”? What school has classes or lectures on this subject? What college has a chair for the instruction of experts in questions of disputed writings? Is there a university with a department for their training? What does Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Columbia in America, or Oxford and Cambridge in England, have to say on this subject? All scientific things are recognized by these great colleges and universities. The study of questions arising from disputed handwritings is recognized in none of them; hence this study is not, at least as yet, a science. Another reason why this study is not a science, is that it is based on the theory of probabilities; it is mere speculation. For this reason experts in handwriting cannot even agree together on their own specialty. They lack the unity of even a trade. Experts in handwriting have no guild—no society. Why is this? Because this class of professional witnesses can never formulate their conflicting theories; they cannot agree on any one point; they have no common standards, no principles laid down and agreed to, no mutual foundation or basis for their theories to rest upon. Again why? Because they would have to violate them in the very next case into which they might be called. Therefore experts in questions of disputed handwriting are not scientists.

In courts of justice no experts should be allowed to plead (_ex-parte_) for the side they espouse. Experts in handwriting are notorious for this; and their methods and deductions are always according to the testimony desired by the side retaining them. Their opinions are tinctured by retainers. In many cases where large sums of money are involved in litigation, as, for instance, a disputed “will case,” experts in handwriting appear on each side. The question in such cases often narrows down to the simple proposition: “Is the signature of the last will and testament genuine?” It must be either genuine or forged; and yet we find the phenomena of prominent experts in handwriting holding diametrically opposite views, and giving reasons under oath in support of their opinions. Now it naturally follows that if one side is right, the other side _must_ be wrong, and _vice versa_; the signature cannot possibly be both genuine and forged. If the testimony of _all_ the experts is in accord with _conscience_, some experts are—to be charitable—inaccurate.

The expert in handwriting can seldom be coaxed into a position in which he can be _proved_ wrong. Really it is extremely simple. Is the signature of the deceased so exact that no one would dare dispute it? Not he! The expert will declare it a tracing should his retainer dictate; otherwise _not_; but whichever way he testifies he can never really be _proved_ wrong, at least in this world, since the one who could tell has passed away to another. Under the circumstances, no wonder the expert can afford to be very positive.

In criminal cases these experts affect the side of the prosecution. Is a conviction secured? It is the result of his skill, while in case of an acquittal, he protests that justice has been cheated, and the prosecuting attorney never fails to indorse this view. He dearly loves a forgery case. If retained by the prosecutor, that official will protect the expert, and have witnesses to corroborate his opinion; while, should the defence secure his services, the expert’s opinion will be corroborated by the defendant himself. The only thing which will _prove_ the expert in error would be a confession—an unlikely occurrence.

But disputed writings, disguised, and anonymous communications are his joy, and again it is almost impossible to prove him wrong; and again his work is very simple. In these cases the guilty man, whoever he may be, never comes forward to admit his crime, so that the expert can blame whom he pleases or, rather, whom he is paid to blame. It is simplicity itself—similarities are to be pointed out. It is self-evident that all writings must contain similarities, for were there no resemblances the art of writing would be useless. In fact, that one person can read another person’s writing, is based on this principle. Surely it is just because we all do make the twenty-six letters of our alphabet more or less alike, that we can read each other’s writing at all. In such a case the _dissimilarities_ (and they are in all writing) will be regarded as attempts at disguise. And, since all writings must consist of similarities or dissimilarities, either or both will be argued as proof against a victim of this kind of evidence. To sum up, their art is to offer a theory favorable to the side retaining them, in such a manner that it may be believed or doubted, but which cannot be disproved.

Another question regarding this class of experts is, do they keep their oath, “to tell the truth, the _whole_ truth, and nothing but the truth?” If engaged by the prosecution do they disclose the points favorable to the defendant—no matter how apparent? Never. Although under oath to tell all, they are advocates for one side only. They are always positive, they swear to their opinions; but are they accurate? Suppose they should be tested, examined with writings of known and living persons, and knew nothing of the circumstances of the case, and had no District Attorney to warn and protect—suppose some one tried to fool them—a child could do it!

The law limits all opinion evidence. It is not considered as good as testimony to fact; much has been written on the justice of so doing. Judge Woodward in “The North American Review” for October, 1902, has treated the subject from a legal standpoint. In this article referred to he shows in no uncertain way how the opinions of experts in questions of disputed handwriting are regarded by bench and bar, especially in the higher courts. Moreover, he cites many instances of injustice done by this kind of opinion evidence. Beside this, I believe, there is a justly popular prejudice against this particular kind of expert testimony.

I have tried to show that this opinion evidence—expert testimony in regard to questions of disputed handwritings—is less accurate and has less authority than the opinion of other specialists. If this is true, should it not be limited to a greater extent than all other kinds of expert testimony? And to this end I venture to propose the following: That a commission be appointed to thoroughly and exhaustively examine all so-called public and official experts in handwriting. No thorough and conscientious expert would object to being tested as to his qualifications. Licenses should be issued to the successful candidates. (Few “sheepskins” would be needed.) Such a license should be required before the expert can practise in court.

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_CHAPTER XVII_

_Prologue to a little Comedy written in the Death-Chamber, and called_

ONCE IN A HUNDRED YEARS.

I come to tell you how the author sat
And looked upon the picture of his love.
He spoke to her—you know he could do that—
And she replied. But this you must believe.
Although no ears received her charming words,
Nor keenest eyes saw her sweet lips pronounce—
It was her heart which spoke to his and said
What none but they may know. ’Twas thus she brought him
Of love and faith and joy and merriment.
The last alone he has set down because
No tongue or pen can tell the other three.
But they, God bless them, knew it in their souls,
And so do I—for, would you think it,
I’m that happy man. Is there another
Half so blessed—“Once in a Hundred Years?”

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_CHAPTER XVIII_

_Impressions—The Last Night and the Next Morning—The Last Night_

There are unwritten laws and canons for all important occurrences in the Death-Chamber. I do not mean the prison rules; but the way “we” have of doing things. For instance, the new arrival, after he has passed through all formalities at the officials’ hands, and they are many, is initiated by “us” on the first night passed in our society.

This is an ancient and honorable custom, and like all initiations, a secret. These fixed ceremonies occur all through his long and brutal life in the Death-Chamber.[1] Long, for even a short stay in it makes him old; brutal, because his punishment is—death. Is that not enough? And to add thereto years of solitary confinement is to kill him not once, but over and over again. The system is all wrong. Oh, the years in the Death-Chamber! The loneliness, the quiet. Hell must be a quiet place.

Footnote 1:

See the very humane recommendations of the Hon. Cornelius V. Collins,
Superintendent of State Prisons, in his report for 1901.

When at last it is drawing to a close, when the Governor has refused to interfere, the officials proceed in this manner: On Saturday the “fortunate one” on stepping from his bath is ordered into a new cell—the one next to the “little door” leading to the execution chamber. Here he receives everything new: new bedding, new clothes from head to foot, and then his knick-knacks, pipe, tobacco, boxes, books, and the packages of letters from home, ragged and blurred from reading and rereading; all have been very carefully searched. He receives something else, for this change in itself is his notice that one week from the following Monday he will be moved again. No questions are ever asked; he has seen it all before; but should he ask, the only reply will be, “I don’t know.”

From that moment a certain unwritten etiquette among us is never violated. His own way in everything, as far as we can possibly comprehend it, is our law. Does he ask for a song or story, his demand is acquiesced with at once. Will he play checkers? He may choose his opponent, and he will always win. We send him our oranges, the top layer from the box of cigars one has purchased. We do anything, everything we can to please him. Has there been a quarrel between him and another, it is completely forgotten. On his part, he must make the ghastly regulation jokes during the week. These are two in number, one with the keeper about the new suit of clothes: “I suppose _you_ will be wearing this week after next.” Number two is with the barber: “Don’t forget to cut my hair short on top.” From now on the “death watch” (two keepers) sits in front of his cage every night. During this week occurs the greatest horror we are called upon to bear, _i.e._, to hear the last farewells of our companion to mother, wife, sister, or child. While listening to their cries we anticipate the agony in store for those _we_ love. My heart bleeds when I remember what I have heard in the Death-Chamber. It is unspeakable. I cannot write of it.

Then comes the last night. Everything must be done very exactly now. Our code prescribes for everything; nothing must be omitted, no custom may be violated. The early evening passes as usual. Generally he asks for songs, perhaps he will sing one himself. That is as it may be. But at midnight the last rites among us of the Death-Chamber take place. The keeper comes to my cell carrying, perhaps, the little paper box my departing friend has kept his tobacco in so long; one that he made and decorated himself.

“Keep that to remember me by,” I hear from the direction of the little door.

“Thank you,” I reply.

“Good-by. I hope you have luck and get out,” is the next part of the ritual.

I must respond, “Thank you. Good-by, and God bless you.”

This is repeated with each one separately. He gives everything away, books, pipe, all. For six months he has been turning over in his mind just what treasure each of his companions shall receive when the last night comes. The responses never vary. They are now as they were ten years ago; they will be the same twenty years from now if that hell on earth is still in existence.

No one speaks to him or to any one else after that. He is reading and rereading each of those letters for the last time and destroying them. We hear him tearing them up one by one. “Swish, swish, swish.” Then it is quiet, very quiet in the Death-Chamber. I am not sleepy; the other fellows do not seem to be sleepy. They are reading. I sit up and write this; to-morrow I will write the other half.

_The Next Morning_

I have often read in the newspapers the supposed meal partaken of by the departing guest “furnished from the Warden’s table.” No newspaper reporter seems able to resist a description of the last breakfast, and no two papers ever publish the same one. Did the wretch gorge himself to the extent indicated, indigestion and not electricity would carry him off, and justice be cheated. No, he is not even stimulated to the extent of a cup of coffee, and for a good reason; a full stomach is not a good conductor. You will read that “the man was indifferent.” I tell you he was glad to go. “That he made no trouble.” Why should he? “Our horror,” how we are affected by our companion’s death, is portrayed. As a matter of fact, we envy him. Anything, everything is better than existence in the Death-Chamber.

During the night, if you have lain awake, and one has been known to be so foolish, you may have felt a very slight vibration, perhaps it is imagination; perhaps it is the dynamo. If you have slept, and do not hear the death-watch draw down the curtains in front of all the cells when the night outside turns gray, you will surely be awakened by the noise of many feet. It is the priests who have entered. Their ordinary shoes on the flagging of the corridor sound like thunder, thunder moving away. Now it subsides to the murmuring of Latin prayers. As you lie in your cell (the drawn curtains make it resemble a little box) wide-awake, you know that the last confession is being made, the last sacrament is being administered. This is another reason why no breakfast is given to the traveller. I saw it all one morning; the curtain was not quite down to the floor. I made myself as flat as possible. I saw the priest bless and kiss him; hold up the cross before his eyes; bid him have faith, and then back out of the cell. “He,” who is so soon to be “it,” followed. Then I heard the procession march rapidly into the next room. “Bang!” said the hungry little door as it closed.

What happens in there, and how it felt three minutes later, I cannot tell you; but I came very near finding out. Will you believe me that this day is a long one? _You_ fellows outside can do much to divert the mind from disagreeable thoughts; _we_ have breakfast, and sit down to wonder which one of us will be the next to go. Poor Benjamin, you have the advantage of us now; you have found “Nirvana” while we are worrying; you are reposing in your bed—of quicklime.

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_CHAPTER XIX_

_Impressions—Dawn in the Death-Chamber_

I listened for the shrieking whistle of the milk train. It has come and gone, and the echoes have died away among the hills of Ossining, those beautiful hills, just—outside. The little family of sparrows who live in the skylight of the dead-house—I know each one by name—awake and angrily pipe their protest at the disturbance. Some of them fly down into the stale, tobacco-laden air and hop on the floor looking for crumbs.

I can hear Shorty, at the other end of the corridor, in the last cell of all, talking to himself, or to God. Others are mumbling while they doze. Larry shrieked twice during the night. And I? I received a visit yesterday and have lain awake thinking over the incident and of what the future means to me.

I am morbid!

I have made the story of the little dead mouse—it is all imaginary, but it is what I have resolved to do myself if----

All these are signs not to be disregarded; I know something is about to happen; I lie in bed and watch for it. Outside, I know that nature is cool and gray—delightful. I wait; it comes. The fierce yellow light begins to fade from out the electric globes; and finally, as it becomes less intense, each little red wire is visible; which fades into pink and disappears. The fearful light, the cruel, torturing, piercing light is gone. And that is how dawn comes to us in the Death-Chamber.

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_CHAPTER XX_

_Impressions_ _While the Jury is Out—The First Jury_

It is said that everything is relative. A fixed period of time, for instance, is either long or short, according to circumstances. There is an exception to this rule. Time is always long while the jury is out. Be this period eight hours or six minutes in duration, either constitutes a life-time. I know, for I have experienced both.

To a man whose brain is analytical, here is a splendid opportunity to administer to his mind some of its own medicine. While the first jury considered my case I noted my impressions in my little red diary, for, thought I, this is a road over which few travellers pass; it is really a unique experience, an episode in a life. I will record my impressions. That jury was most considerate; it did not hurry me in the slightest; it was out eight hours. I started to record my impressions while the second jury deliberated; it interrupted me in six minutes—but I have forgiven it.

Here are the thoughts which came to me during the period at the end of my first trial; but before I quote from my note-book—it will be unnecessary to open it, for I shall never forget what is inside—it may be of interest to know the circumstances under which the entries were written.

My trial for murder is almost over. The evidence against me has all been given—there was none offered in my defence, for technical reasons. The closing arguments by counsels have been made; the judge has charged the jury, and the jury is out. My fate rests upon the knees of the gods. All of which means that I am in a little iron pen, and that twelve men occupy the next room, deliberating whether life or death shall be my portion. I am very tired; for full three months I have been under a physical strain and a mental tension—I have been falsely accused, I am innocent. There are three who know this—myself, the man who did the murder, and God.

February 10, 1900. The first entry at 3.30 o’clock P.M.

The keepers are watching me curiously. Their trained eyes are like microscopes, through which they study and compare my conduct with that of previous defendants whom they have guarded under similar circumstances. They are calculating how long it will take for me to break down and show nervousness. I think they have a bet on the subject. It is irritating. If I should ask for a drink of water, they would exchange glances. I must not throw away my cigar before it is quite smoked up, neither must I let it go out—for these are bad signs. No laughter on my part, even should something impress me as being amusing—it would sound “forced.” And, above all, no blowing of the nose, even if I want to. They will suspect a surreptitious use of my handkerchief for another purpose. Any one may guess, and very cleverly, at mental agony expressed through physical distress. But what if there are no visible signs of distress? There shall be none. I wonder how they will interpret my occupation of writing this? If they imagine I am making my will they must think me possessed of much to give away.

I have speculated about my guards and answered their kind inquiries. I am killing time; the afternoon is slipping away quickly. At any rate, the jury cannot stay out much longer. I look at my watch—eight minutes and a half have passed. Good God! Only eight minutes and a half!

The second entry at four o’clock.

I am chemist enough to love an experiment. The jury is the unknown substance; the testimony, the reagent; my case is in solution; what will precipitate?

I think of the judge’s charge. I can repeat it word for word; it is seared into my brain; but it would have been more cruel had it aroused a false hope. How did it impress the jury? Over and over again, the old question cries out in my mind: “What will the jury do?”

You may be sure I selected pleasant-faced men; men with little fans made of wrinkles at the corners of their eyes; men who smiled often; who had pleasant voices.

What a change comes over a talesman when he becomes a juror! He is sworn. He takes his seat in the box; he will hold your life in his hand; you cannot get rid of him. Now you look at him in this new aspect, and there is a leer about his mouth, a cruelty in his eyes you had not seen before. Why did you select him—a man with a jaw like that? It was suicide.

I think of the prosecution’s case. They will convict me, of course. I reconsider it from my point of view. No, they cannot! No jury in the world could convict on such theories. But on what will they base an acquittal? There was no defence. I remember the surprises the district attorney’s office has sprung upon me—the unanswered witnesses, the fervent experts swearing to the impassioned hypothetical questions of the prosecutor, and his closing address, scathing, unjust. There is no chance for me—the odds are thousands to one against acquittal.

Even so, whispers Hope, that happens every day. Think of the lotteries—the odds in them are many thousands to one against the winning ticket; but one ticket _must_ win. There can be no—That’s it! “The reasonable doubt”! But there has been no defence. It is hopeless. Then the presumption of innocence? Ah, they will disagree; I know it, I am sure of juror number ----; I shall have another chance; but what will the jury do? Perhaps they will exonerate me.

The third entry: 5 o’clock.

I have gone over the merits of the case again, coolly, dispassionately. I have counted the points against me on the fingers of my right hand, and checked off the points in my favor on the left. I shall be convicted is my conclusion.

How will they take it at home—my mother, my—Stop that! _Stop that!_ You are not to speculate on that subject; there must be no redness about the eyes, no twitching mouth when you face that jury for the last time. Use your brain—think of something else.

I am sick of the case; it can have but one issue. I must drive it from my mind by some other subject. I must have a proposition to prove—anything. Why does time pass so slowly? for instance; that will do.

It _is_ going slowly. This afternoon is a life-time—but why? That is a very good subject; it is an intensely real one. That this afternoon is “a life-time” is not only figurative—it is literal. Think of it; as long a life-time as you will, is composed of what? Of course I mean mentally—not what happens; that is hardly worth chronicling. What constitutes our interest in life? Surely it is because we cannot tell what the next day—or the next moment, for that matter—may bring forth. We hope, but uncertainty gives that hope its zest. Because we cannot discount the future, the unexpected is life, and life is Doubt. Can enough doubt be crowded into a few hours, or even minutes, to constitute a life-time? You will know it possible if you have ever waited—while the jury is out.

This must be the secret of the drama—the mimic life—in which the aroused hopes and fears and sympathies are but other names for doubt. Imagine, then, the suspense, the doubt, of the waiting man in this play with real life or death, and concentrate the emotions of a whole audience into that single brain.

The fourth entry: 6.30 o’clock.

There is a noise in the street below. I look out of the window at the crowd; they are waiting also from curiosity. Newspapers are being sold—newspapers full of unjust and imaginary stories about me and mine. The journalists are eager to sell these inventions while interest in my case lasts, hence the newspapers are “extras.” While watching this I see the jury go to dinner in an old-fashioned white stage, such as used to carry passengers on Broadway. Perhaps it is the same stage in which I rode with my mother to Manhattanville thirty years ago—I a little fellow in kilt skirts and white stockings. How well I remember it!

The fifth entry: 8 o’clock.

They will allow no one to see me; that is, none of my friends, but curious officials come in on imaginary errands to look me over. The jury returned some time ago; they have now deliberated for five hours. Evidently some one is holding out. Having done so for this length of time, it looks like a disagreement; unless some one changes his mind. Why should a juror change his mind? He has sworn to go by the evidence. Do the opinions of his companions change the evidence?

I wish that there was no jury system. Having five judges to preside would be much better. They would go by facts, their ears would not be tickled by mere eloquence; experience would teach them when witnesses were lying. And, best of all, five judges would know the real value of expert testimony; yes, they would know that, for they would hear the official experts expounding one theory to-day, have heard its opposite yesterday, and will hear the repudiation of both to-morrow.

The sixth entry: 8.30 o’clock.

They brought me sandwiches and a cup of coffee. While disposing of them I talked to my friends the keepers, telling them about my experiences in the cattle business so long ago and so far away. They paid me the pretty compliment of saying that I take matters more coolly than any one they had ever seen; that I show no emotion—I knew they were watching for it. Am I confident? No, I am not. Strange to say, I am becoming indifferent. After all, what does it matter so far as I am concerned?

Like the stag making his last stand and being torn by the hounds, better die than escape wounded to suffer more; better have it over and done with. And as for my home, my family—stop that!

The seventh entry: 9 o’clock.

The refinement of cruelty. I have been taken into the court-room twice; each time with exposed nerves which are scraped and singed by the questions the jury has come in to ask, and the answers which push me nearer to the edge of the precipice. Each time I have gone prepared for the end. It is interesting, but not amusing. I saw my father last at two o’clock, seven hours ago. He has grown seven years older since then. My brother is in court. He is four years my senior; he looks an old man—I wonder how I look. My attorneys are very serious as they whisper together.

The eighth entry: 10 o’clock.

Three months I have been on trial; twice a day I have been taken into court—morning and afternoon. The signal which summons me is made by rapping a key on the iron door. This is symbolic—key and door. Which way will the key turn? Will the door open or close for me? I feel that the next summons will answer these questions. They are rapping the key on the door.

The last entry: midnight.

I was right. I found out about the key and the door on the third summons. It is _not_ three times and—_out_.

I entered the yellow room. It was packed. Every one turned to look at me. It was a picture of a storm at sea; the pale faces were the whitecaps. It foreboded trouble—shipwreck. A little strain of music had run in my head all the afternoon—“The Blessing of the Poniards,” from the “Huguenots”—a full orchestra seemed to play it then; I marched to it.

We sat down and waited for the jury. While doing so this thought intruded itself upon me: Had I the gambler’s fever; would “wheel” or “bank” ever interest me again after this?

Imagine becoming excited over a hundred dollars placed on the red or black! Of what concern would be a little white ball running around and tumbling into holes; or cards, two at a time, being drawn from a silver box; or, for that matter, five pasteboards held in my own hand?

The jury entered; they would not look at me. I knew. The judge entered; we all rose to show our respect—for his gown. He looked pleased; he must have known the verdict as well as I.

“The jury will rise.”

“The prisoner will rise.”

What luck! The chimes from the “New York Life” building, around the corner, struck eleven. Yes, so it proved. “New York Life” was bidding me good-by. The gentlemen of the jury had agreed upon a verdict. They found the prisoner guilty of murder in the first degree.

There was applause from the _judge’s_ chambers; a woman’s voice cried out, “Oh, good! Good—good!” A window opened and I saw a carrier-pigeon flash out and fly away. All this to the accompaniment of a groan which ran around the court-room. One woman—God bless her—fainted; and then I felt my father’s hand in mine.

The game is over, and I have lost. I must be a good loser, for the crowd in the corridors cheered me—cheered a convicted man on his way to the “Bridge of Sighs.”

Then I was under a compound microscope. Convicted men seem to be interesting men; at least, not one of those unwinking eyes would have missed a single tit-bit of my agony had I displayed any. But plain, vulgar pride came to my rescue; for I had seen convicted men carried back to the Tombs, undressed, and put to bed like sick babies; I had heard them howl all night and beg for liquor; some of them had tried to throw themselves downstairs.

But my mother, my—stop that! For God’s sake don’t think of that; perhaps later, in the dark----

We crossed the “Bridge of Sighs.” We stepped into the prison yard, flooded with moonlight. It was like the last act of “Romeo and Juliet” among the tombs. Poor, mad Romeo! I thought of other moonlit scenes; of another Romeo; of love vows never to be renewed—that is, I started to think of them—something I must not do. It was all the fault of the queen of night. I had not bathed in her mysterious light for twelve long months. (It was three years before I worshipped her glory again.)

Never in my life have I been so touched; never so near breaking down, as when, on that night, the keepers in the Tombs, where I had lodged so long, expressed to me their sympathy and confidence. I believed in their sincerity then; I have never doubted it since.

Next morning.

I went to my little cell; and, with my best philosophy, undid the chattels I had packed so carefully that morning and addressed to home. I slept. What? Sleep? Certainly. There was no more suspense; I was legally dead. Life had stopped with its forfeiture; relief had come from doubt. I slept. It proved my proposition of the afternoon.

THE SECOND JURY. Nov. 11, 1902.

The jury sitting at my second trial has retired, and three years later I find myself under almost precisely similar circumstances to those just described. I will note the variations. The suspense, the doubt, should be worse than at the previous trial, knowing, as I do, what it is to be a convicted man, and what it would mean to go all through it again. I know it, all the way from the ceremony of passing the death sentence to the opening of the little door.

Strangely enough, that same strain of music hums in my brain, repeating itself over and over again. I do not believe I have thought of it once during the last three years. Yet, here it is, and I shall march to it again.

What will the jury do?

I do not think about my case this time; if acquitted, I shall be pleased for my father’s and mother’s sake. If convicted, as far as I am personally concerned I am absolutely indifferent. I am like a man who, having fallen from the roof of some sky-scraper, lies mangled in the street below. Suppose an old friend comes along and kicks him? He cannot feel it because his back is broken. I can suffer no more whatever happens; and I have forgotten how to rejoice.

Acquitted, convicted—I am indifferent. Since that night I watched the dawn come to the Death-Chamber, as God lives, I have not cared.

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_CHAPTER XXI_

_Impressions—The Friendship of Imagination_

I found myself in the Death-Chamber; others were there. Our small community being an American institution, we were all “free and equal,” of course with the exception of the former. Unhappy, indeed, would be the life of any one in that room who did not recognize this equality.

But most of my fellow citizens refused to exist in the present. Making of the Death-Chamber a half-way house, they alternately lived in the past, or died in the future; and they were perfectly logical in doing so; it was quite excusable. Our existence there was certainly not life, and it was not nearly as comfortable as death. So they brooded, and the Death-Chamber is a bad place in which to brood. Some of my companions acted very foolishly when those long, hot, humid summer days arrived.

Here, then, was a problem. I must learn to amuse myself, I must cultivate my own acquaintance; I must make friends with my own identity. This was not difficult, for we possessed a mutual friend—a close, personal, dearly intimate friend. One who had been with me in the mines of Mexico and on the alkali plains of Texas. Together we had paced the white decks of yachts in summer; had spent the evenings in my library, and the days in my color factory in the winter. A friend, who, by special permission of the warden came to live with me, to share my degradation. Wasn’t he a good fellow? I consulted my friend: I have always done so. I am consulting him now, for I am smoking my favorite pipe. The introduction took place, was accepted on both sides, and I formed the acquaintance, and afterwards friendship, of my own Imagination.

My new friend—I hope you will meet him some day, if you have not done so already—taught me to “penetrate the veil,” to look right through and beyond and above all conditions. I cultivated the friendship of Imagination still further, and the whole earth and its fulness became mine. No one could sentence my thoughts to imprisonment, they were free. I began to live mentally. It was my birthday.

He counselled me not to waste those years. “What an opportunity!” he said. So for twenty months I devoured books from the prison library. No telephones, or duns, or bores could interrupt me; there were no social duties, no business to interfere. I read, I dreamed, I improvised. Then it was but a step to writing, and I must say Imagination was very nasty about that. He made me review my grammar with diligence. To satisfy him, I had to study rhetoric anew.

He opened my eyes. The Death-Chamber was full of—_life_. There was Romance, Tragedy, of course; and even Comedy looked in through the skylight and set me laughing now and then. Material was all around me; stories about the Death-Chamber came into my mind so quickly that I could not write half of them down; they sprang up and choked me, where before had been only barren land. I set down the least horrible, for some—yes, many—could not be printed; and if you have found these grim or out of line, it is because of environment and of their truth.

Then Imagination and I went away to England. We wrote a novel. In it are no prisoners and no crime, but it is full of the sea, brave men, a cruel woman. It is a tale of love.

Imagination is a humorous fellow—he must have his joke. He made me interested in things dramatic; he advised the purchase of everything I could hear of on the subject—text-books, essays. I bought two hundred plays, and he and I went to the theatre every evening at eight, and attended matinées on Saturday at two. Just one play each evening, and after the curtain fell we talked it over and criticised—we analyzed those two hundred plays—Imagination and I. We laughed at costume comedies, studied the plays of social life—from Sheridan to Fitch—and delved for motives in the modern problem plays; watched Mansfield, Drew, and Sothern in all their rôles. Over Cyrano de Bergerac and L’Aiglon we poured the tribute of a tear to Rostand’s genius.

And then (how did he keep from laughing in my face?) Imagination egged me on into writing plays—many of them. If he made me think the “actable,” he well deserved the name.

It was all my own fault: the smoke from my older friend often got up into my eyes and warned me. This old pipe of mine played the cynic and was perfectly frank about my dramas. But I wouldn’t listen. I blundered on until I found a “_fidus Achates_” to help and guide me. Together we hope to restrain this strenuous fellow a little.

* * * * *

It’s all over now. My pipe, Imagination, and a faithful friend, I have found them all, and I “found _myself_” in the Death-Chamber.

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_CHAPTER XXII_

_The Last Story_

This is the story I can never tell, yet will spend all the rest of my life in telling—but how hopelessly. I cannot even think of it without something coming up into my throat to choke me. It is about my love for the soldier father, and the mother almost divine, who have suffered with and for me.

I can no more express this emotion than the sorrow they have borne for me can be told. Ah, but both are written—written in the deeper lines upon their dear faces, and illustrated in their grayer hairs; while how and why I love them, is imprinted eternally upon my heart.

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_CHAPTER XXIII—APPENDIX_

_“The Story of the Ring”_ _By Vance Thompson_ _(By the courtesy of the New York “Journal”)_

It was bludgeon against rapier which began yesterday; it was the battle-axe against the stiletto; it was Osborne against Molineux; and Molineux won.

Never, I think, was so dramatic a duel fought out in a court-room. There was very little noise. The surface of it was quiet as a pool. The casual observer would have seen merely two men—the one in the witness chair and the other lounging against the lawyers’ table—who seemed to be exchanging polite commonplaces. They were courteous. Now and again they smiled at each other, with polite amiability. They “mistered” each other. Yet underneath this unrippled surface was a tremendous tragic depth, in which they clutched and struggled, fierce and silent. It was a fight for life. For Molineux it was life and honor—or the throttling shame of the electric chair. For Osborne it was either a vindication of his methods as a prosecuting officer, or it was bitter defeat. He was fighting for his professional life as truly as the haggard prisoner was fighting for the breath of life.

Never again will you see such a battle waged—so tense, so watchful, so merciless.

Molineux, to be sure, came pallid and wasted from the cell where they have shut him up for nearly four years. He had the look of one of those mouldy men who creep up into the sunlight now and then from the cellars of the world. But no sooner had he taken his seat in the witness chair, no sooner had he faced his adversary, than the race showed in him. He threw back his prison-worn head and squared his shoulders; he set his jaws until his thin lips made a straight line, like a sabre gash, across his face. He was ready; every nerve and ounce of brain in him was alert. He was ready to do battle for his life. The apathy and sluggishness of the cell-dweller fell away from him. In this supreme moment he was almost the man he had been before they arrested him and put him away.