IN THE NAME OF THE PEOPLE.

Valentine Willard was not a bad fellow at heart, although Gordon will never admit it. But Gordon is a crank who carries his professional enmity into private life.

Their trouble began about an “affidavit of merits.”

Gordon had a case in which he was about to enter judgment, when Willard blocked him off with an extension obtained from the Court by means of an affidavit, in which he swore that “his client had fully and fairly stated the matter to him, and from that statement he verily believed the defendant had a good and substantial defence to the action upon the merits.”

This, of course, was utter fiction. There was no thought of a defence. But delay defeats, and later Willard withdrew, allowing Gordon to take the twenty-fifth instead of the first judgment against his man.

The same thing is done every day of practice in the City of New York. Lawyers who are Officers of the Court prostitute the Court with cheerful zeal—men with a high sense of self-respect in their private lives, demean themselves beyond expression in their professional careers—gentlemen who would not stoop to the slightest equivocation up-town, perjure themselves for money down-town, or teach their clerks to do it for them. It is not a pretty practice, but Gordon ought to have known the custom. However, being young at that time, it still shocked him. To-day he says it only fills him with disgust. But he was just as much of a crank then as he is now, so he took Willard’s affidavit before the Grievance Committee of the Bar Association.

He might have seen the smile on the faces of his auditors as he told his story, had he not been blinded by zeal. However the Chairman was grave and judicial enough when he announced it was not the province of the Committee to take up the quarrels of counsel, and that they did not propose to investigate light accusations of perjury.

Indeed, the Chairman was so very judicial, and his speech so well delivered, that he might have been suspected of having said something of the same sort before under similar circumstances. But Gordon, crank that he was, thought of nothing but his point, and stoutly maintained that false swearing was being practised every day by lawyers, great and small—that tricks and treachery were personal matters reflecting on but not involving the profession as a whole, while licensed perjury was a travesty of law, striking at the very foundations of Justice. So he went on, boiling over with intensity and utterly innocent of tact.

But when the Chairman stopped him and said something about “seeking aid in legislative action,” or “going before a Grand Jury,” Gordon, young as he was, looked straight into the speaker’s eyes and drank in experience, if not wisdom, from their glance.

Later on Willard’s client quarrelled with his counsel, and put into Gordon’s hands the very proofs he needed. But the Grievance Committee never saw them, for Gordon locked the papers in his safe and spoke no word.

But that did not close the episode.

It was, however, the beginning of the end as far as Gordon and Willard were concerned.

More than a year passed before the two men met again. Willard had in the meantime been appointed an Assistant District Attorney, and practised only in the Criminal Courts. Their encounter was entirely a matter of accident, though Gordon doesn’t think so. Nevertheless, the facts are that Gordon chanced to wander into General Sessions while waiting for some papers, and happened to find his bête-noir prosecuting a case of burglary, and it was merely a matter of habit that caused him to study the prisoner as closely as he did.

The man’s face was gentle, and almost expressionless in its vague wonder at the scene before him. Something had its grip on him—just what he did not seem to know—but something monstrous and merciless in its mechanism, and something was being said about him—just what he did not appear to comprehend.

Gordon watched the listless figure, and the weary droop of the head, and interpreted for himself.

Perhaps the poor wretch had struggled when arrested, but without avail—had stormed and protested to the sergeant at the police station, with no result—had denied and explained to the Magistrate at the hearing, but to no end. The Law—a hideous Something—resistless in its power, relentless in its purpose, wanted him. These men—the one on the Bench, the one behind the rail, those others in uniform—wished him out of the way. Perhaps he had concluded he could best propitiate them by giving as little trouble as possible. So he sat there inert and silent, fascinated into non-resistance, watching the doors of his prison open somewhat as a rabbit must watch the widening jaws of a snake.

It is impossible to comprehend the feeling without experiencing it, but Gordon was a lonely sort of man, who sometimes felt himself apart from, instead of a part of, the universe, and so he understood.

Mr. Assistant District Attorney Willard was presenting his case ably, handling his points with so much care that Gordon asked the policeman sitting beside him if the trial was of any importance.

“Importance? Well, I should say so! Don’t you see the Chief sitting up near the rail?”

Gordon glanced in the direction indicated and observed the Chief of Police, note book in hand, watching every move of the District Attorney.

“Who is he?” he asked, nodding toward the prisoner.

“Why the larrup says his name is Winter—and don’t he look innocent? Well, he’s really Red Farrell, a crook we’ve been after for years. But there’s nothin’ much gets by us, I guess.—Eh?”

But Gordon was studying the prisoner again and did not respond.

Winter? Where had he heard that name? Why, of course, Winter was the married name of his old nurse, who had been in his father’s family for thirty years. But who was this man?

“Mr. Duncan——”

Gordon turned as he heard the whisper behind him and found himself face to face with the very woman of whom he had been thinking.

“Why, Margaret, what are you doing here?”

“O, Mr. Duncan—it’s him.”

“Who?”

“Jack—there—my son.” She glanced toward the prisoner.

Gordon motioned toward the door and they passed out together into the Rotunda.

“O, Mr. Duncan, can you save him?—You will, won’t you, dearie? He’s my only boy! Indeed, indeed, he’s not guilty for all he’s been a wild lad at times. O, why do they say he’s Red Farrell, or some such man? O please tell them, Mr. Duncan.”

And then the story came out with a burst of tears which the Rotunda saw and heard without any emotion whatsoever. It has witnessed so many tears—that Rotunda—heard so many, many stories.

Before Court adjourned Gordon found himself committed to aid in the defence of John Winter—his first criminal case. By evening he was working enthusiastically, confident in the innocence of his client.

Winter was a stupid fellow and impossible as a witness, but this only further convinced his new counsel, who believed a bad witness could not be a good liar. But the defence had been poorly prepared at the hands of the attorney assigned by the Court. Proper witnesses had not been subpœnaed—details had been neglected, while the prosecution seemed unusually keen. This last fact worried and puzzled Gordon more than all the others, and finally started him out on a tour of personal investigation.

When he returned he had learned enough to make him admit that with the time at his command there was small hope of clearing his man from the closely pressed charge.

One chance, however, remained—to see the Assistant District Attorney and obtain an adjournment. But to beg a favour from that source was gall and wormwood to Gordon. Moreover, what he had discovered was not calculated to cool his hot head or make him more diplomatic. So the mission did not promise well, and he had about determined not to attempt it, when the look of despair and mute appeal in Margaret’s face made him reconsider, and drove him late at night to visit a man he would have gone miles to avoid.

The Assistant District Attorney was the opposite of Gordon in every way—smooth, politic, even tempered, and ambitious to drop the word “Assistant” from his title. This, it was rumoured, he would do at the next election. In an encounter between these two men it was not difficult to foresee with whom would rest the advantage.

Willard welcomed Gordon to his study and opened with easy commonplaces. But Gordon, hopelessly fanatic and stiff-necked in his honesty, disdained the aid of conventions and pushed directly to his point.

“Mr. Willard, you are prosecuting a young man—John Winter by name——”

“Ah yes, I thought I saw you at the trial to-day, but didn’t know you practised in the Criminal Courts. Yes,—John Winter, alias Red Farrell.”

“I do not think so and that is why I am here. This young man is the son of Margaret Winter, an old family servant of ours on whose word I would stake my life. I have examined the prisoner and some of the witnesses, and am sure a mistake is being made and that I can prove the man’s innocence.”

“Well, I shall at least have the satisfaction of being beaten by a worthy adversary. But you didn’t come here merely to throw down the gauntlet, Mr. Gordon.”

The District Attorney smiled inquiringly at his visitor.

“No, Sir. I want you to withdraw a juror in this case and consent to a mistrial. Meanwhile we can both make further investigations and the cause of Justice will not suffer.”

If the speaker had asked for his head, Willard’s face could not have expressed more absolute amazement. He stared in silence for a moment—then checked a sudden inclination to laugh and answered calmly enough:

“Of course you have not practised very extensively in the Criminal Courts, Mr. Gordon, or you would know that what you ask is really absurd.”

The expression was unfortunate and Gordon blazed up instantly.

“I see nothing absurd about it, Sir. I ask you for time to ascertain this man’s guilt or his innocence which cannot now be properly determined.—Do you mind telling me just why this seems absurd to the District Attorney?”

The speaker’s tone and manner would have nettled a man less on his guard, but Willard only laughed pleasantly as he answered:

“The District Attorney’s office is satisfied to proceed, and you will admit the case must be fairly strong when we are undaunted by the presence of distinguished counsel.”

“This is no matter for jests, Mr. Willard. Do you consider that the duty of the District Attorney is to convict as many persons as possible—to win as many cases as you can?”

“O come, come, Mr. Gordon, we are not here to discuss ethical questions.”

“Mr. Willard, I am not here to be trifled with or side-tracked. Will you tell me what investigations you have made to ascertain if this man is innocent or not?”

The District Attorney leaned back wearily in his chair and gazed at the earnest face confronting him. Then he lazily reached for a cigarette.

“I am trying to keep my temper and be polite,” he replied, “but you surely do not expect me to detail my case to my adversary?”

“Your case? Is that how you term the solemn duty you are charged with? Does the District Attorney condescend to tricks—does he hope to make convictions by surprise?”

Willard struck a match angrily, but he applied it to the cigarette in his mouth before he answered:

“Red Farrell must pay you a good fee, Mr. Gordon, to make this worth your while.”

For a moment Gordon was the cooler man of the two.

“Is it not the duty of the District Attorney to ascertain the truth?” he asked as though the other had not spoken. “Are you, a public officer, interested in withholding any part of the truth? Have you anything to conceal?”

“Mr. Gordon, I do not propose to listen to these insinuations——”

“Let us cease bantering then, Mr. Willard. I am ready to talk plainly. Must I?”

“You must indeed, unless you wish me to interpret for myself.”

He flicked the ashes from his cigarette and glanced with a bored expression toward the clock.

But Gordon did not speak until Willard’s eyes met his again.

“Very well then. I will see that you understand. The police have been hunting a man called Red Farrell, but they have not been successful. The Chief has blamed the Captains—the Captains the detectives, and the papers have ridiculed them all. The police of other cities too have twitted them about it. Suddenly this young man is arrested under suspicious circumstances. No one seems particularly interested in him or knows much about him. Why shouldn’t he be Red Farrell? He is Red Farrell. Do you understand me?”

“I hear you making a very nasty and uncalled-for charge against the police of this City and——”

“One that you well know has both foundation and precedent. You know the men who compose the force. So do I. They have the same pride and ambition and morals that other men have. No more and no less. They discover Red Farrell and remove a reproach. Suppose Winter isn’t Farrell—well, he’s probably guilty anyhow. They want to win cases too!”

“Mr. Gordon, you have said about enough——”

“To persuade you that this is a proper case for further investigation?”

“No, Sir, and I will tell you right now that this case will not be adjourned for one hour!”

Gordon rose to his feet and faced his opponent, wording his question slowly and with deliberate emphasis.

“Of course you personally have no special interest in convicting this particular prisoner?”

Willard sprang from his seat and angrily tossed his cigarette into the fire.

“Mr. Gordon, take care you do not go too far.”

“Are you not especially anxious to win this case?”

“I am prosecuting, Sir, in the name of the People.”

“In the name of the People!”

Gordon laughed the words out with stinging scorn, and the Attorneys faced one another with a rage that in men of less refinement would have set them at each other’s throats. But the grapple was as deadly and the purpose as grim as though the struggle had been physical. There was no possible chance for argument now and Gordon flung off all restraint as he poured forth his torrent of contempt.

“In the name of the People! What people gave you a commission to tamper with the liberty of the meanest thing alive? What people privileged you to prosecute an innocent man—for you know he is innocent—I have seen it in every false smirk of your face ever since I entered this room. And to prosecute him for what? For your own personal advancement—to win a case for your client. Do you want me to tell you who your client is——”

“I want you to understand that you can’t blackmail me, Sir!”

“Blackmail you? By the Lord Harry, you shall hear the truth from one man if you never hear it again. Don’t lay a hand on me or I’ll break you like this pencil! Blackmail you? To-night you’ve got to know that another man knows you through and through. To-night you have to go unmasked. Are you afraid of hearing me say who your client is? Are you afraid of having me name the politicians whose orders you execute and whose nod is your law? You have been ordered by the police to win this case. This case indeed! And you, the Assistant District Attorney, in the name of the People, will win it by fair means or foul. You have never investigated one fact, or asked one question, calculated to bring out the truth, but by trick and wile you stoop to serve your master’s purpose. And do you think I do not know why? You poor fool! Every honest man knows who cares to follow your dirty tracks, and the knaves whose gifts you buy know whom they sell to and for what. But remember this, the day you run for District Attorney will be the day I take these papers where they will do the most good, and we will see if the People want a perjurer to prosecute in their name!”

Gordon tore from his pocket the “affidavit of merits,” with the proofs of its falsity, and slapped them down upon the desk.

Willard glanced at the papers and then at his adversary. His answer was almost a whisper—hard and rasping.

“Gordon, I will convict your man if I never win another case in my life!”

“By God—you dare not!”

The study door slammed as with a threat—“You dare not!”

The front door echoed “You dare not!” as a challenge.

When Willard looked up again the clock was striking three. But it chimed “You dare not,” in the even tone of statement.

The second day of John Winter’s trial brought a series of reverses for the prosecution, and the prisoner was acquitted, to the utter disgust of the police.

About that time the Assistant District Attorney’s career suffered one of those sudden blights, the origin of which is the mystery of a city’s politics.

A few years after this Red Farrell was really found and convicted, but then Willard had been so long on the political shelf that those who put him there had completely forgotten his existence.

But I believe they were right in accusing him of bungling that case. Of course, he may have been intimidated, but the chances are he could never have been convicted of perjury. The crime has almost the sanction of custom. This he must have known. So why not credit him with worthy motives and say he was a good fellow at heart, even though Gordon, Indian-hater that he is, will never admit it?