The Case and Exceptions Part 22

A court officer stepped forward, and at the same time Fenton moved toward the children.

Then Sargent's voice broke the stillness of the Court.

"If your Honour please, I wish to withdraw the motion in this case."

There was a moment of absolute, breathless silence.

Then Fenton sprang to his feet.

"Withdraw?" he almost shouted. "What do you mean? This is my case. It's been decided in my favour. I won't permit it!"

Sargent only addressed the Court as he answered,

"Nevertheless, I withdraw the motion."

The Justice looked steadily at the lawyer's face, and his gaze was not without a trace of approval.

"I must warn you, Counsellor," he said at length, "that this is very unusual. It is a most serious matter."

"I will take all responsibility, your Honour."

"Very well, Mr. Sargent. You consent, I presume, Mr. Harding? I am not sure that I have the power, but if not, the error can be corrected by appeal. Mark the motion, 'withdrawn.'"

"This is treachery!" Fenton shouted at his lawyer. "I'll have you disbarred, Sir! You'll lose every client you've got----"

"But I'll keep my self-respect," answered Sargent, in a whisper.

"I'll have you disbarred, Sir!--I'll ruin you utterly. Your Honour, he's conspired with the other side--he used to be in their office. I can prove----"

"Clear the Court Room!" thundered the Justice.

Outside in the Rotunda the audience placed Sargent on trial and straightway condemned him. In legal circles his conduct was denounced, eulogised, and on the whole deplored.

But the Court of Conscience (hear the cynic mutter "Court of last resort!") held him guiltless, and from its judgment there is no appeal.

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 prost.i.tute 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 a.s.sociation.

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 circ.u.mstances. 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 pa.s.sed before the two men met again. Willard had in the meantime been appointed an a.s.sistant 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 _bete-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. a.s.sistant 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?"