Her Forbidden Knight (24 page)

“M
AY IT PLEASE YOUR HONOR,
M
R.
F
OREMAN
, and gentlemen of the jury—”

The speaker was a United States assistant district attorney; the scene, a Federal courtroom in the post office building on Park Row. John Knowlton, alleged counterfeiter, was on trial before twelve of his peers.

The room was old and dingy—the building itself has been called the ugliest in New York. The jurybox, the benches, the railings, were blackened by time and use; the clerk appeared to have been fastened to his desk for many years. A dreary, melancholy room.

The spectators’ benches are by no means filled; most of the faces are familiar ones. In a group at the right are Detective Barrett and his two men, with Billy Sherman. Seated side by side on the front row of benches are Driscoll, Booth, Dumain, Jennings, and Dougherty. Toward the rear of the room Lila is seen, and by her side—Mrs. Amanda Berry! There are some dozen others—hangers-on, sensation-seekers, and young lawyers.

Knowlton, who was seated by the side of his attorney and engaged in a whispered consultation with him, looked up quickly as the prosecuting attorney rose to address the court and jury. The clock on the wall pointed to half past eleven; ninety minutes had sufficed for the preliminaries, including the selection of the jury. Lawyer Siegel had proven extraordinarily easy to please, thereby earning the gratitude of the judge.

“May it please your honor, Mr. Foreman, and gentlemen of the jury—”

The assistant district attorney proceeded with his opening speech. He was a young fellow—perhaps eight and twenty—and he spoke with the earnest enthusiasm of youth, with forceful, sounding phrases.

The prisoner felt his cheeks burn more than once at their sting. He wound up with the assertion that he would produce sufficient evidence to convict ten times over.

Lawyer Siegel turned and whispered to his client:

“He didn’t let anything out—he’s a slick one.”

Before Knowlton could do more than nod in response Siegel had risen to his feet and begun the opening speech for the defense. It was surprisingly short; it entered not at all into details, or even the nature of his evidence, and amounted, in fact, to little more than a general denial. But as he stated that the accused would not be called to the stand in his own defense Knowlton perceived a swift, almost imperceptible, expression of doubt and disapproval flit across the faces of the jurors.

As Siegel sat down the prisoner turned for a fleeting glance at Lila; she smiled at him brightly.

The prosecuting attorney called his first witness:

“James Barrett!”

The detective had little to tell. He identified Knowlton and gave an account of his arrest, dwelling pointedly on his flight to the rear of the flat as they entered.

Siegel, for the defense, did not cross-examine.

The second witness for the prosecution was Billy Sherman.

“What is your name?”

“William Sherman.”

“Your business?”

“Journalist.”

“Your address?”

He gave a number on West Thirty-fourth Street.

There followed some questions concerning the length of Sherman’s acquaintance with the prisoner and the amount of time he had spent in his company; then the prosecuting attorney asked:

“Did you ever see Knowlton pass, or offer to pass, counterfeit money?”

Instantly Siegel was on his feet with an objection.

“Sustained,” said the judge.

This was the beginning of a battle royal between the two lawyers. Time and again the prosecuting attorney tried to make his point, approaching it from every possible angle; and time and again Siegel objected that the witness was incompetent to answer.

Finally the judge himself became impatient and addressed the assistant district attorney with some severity:

“Mr. Brant, this witness has not qualified as an expert. You must give up this line of questioning or dismiss him.”

Siegel seated himself with a triumphant smile. The prosecuting attorney frowned and cleared his throat. Knowlton cast a glance over his shoulder at the spectators’ benches and sent a smile to Lila.

Dougherty leaned over and whispered to Driscoll:

“I don’t know what the deuce they’re talking about, but that cagey little guy looks like he’d just stopped a swing on the jaw and was hanging over the ropes.”

But young Mr. Brant had another cartridge in his belt. He asked that an exception be noted on the ruling of the court, then turned to the witness:

“Mr. Sherman, where were you on the evening of the 11th of December last?”

“At the rooms of Pierre Dumain, a palmist.”

“Where are those rooms?”

“In West Twenty-first Street.”

“What is the number?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who was there with you?”

“The defendant, Knowlton, and four or five others.”

“What are the names of the others?”

“Tom Dougherty, Pierre Dumain, Bub Driscoll, Sam Booth, and Harry Jennings.”

“What were you doing there?”

The witness hesitated a moment before he answered:

“Having a fight. You see—”

“No; answer my questions,” interrupted the lawyer. “Were you fighting?”

“No, sir.”

“Who was?”

“Knowlton and Driscoll. Knowlton knocked him out.”

“And then?”

“Then Knowlton and Dougherty fought. It lasted ten or fifteen minutes and—”

“Now tell the court and the jury exactly what happened.”

“Well, Knowlton was getting the better of Dougherty and had him up against the wall, when all of a sudden somebody threw a piece of bronze or something at Knowlton and hit him on the head. He dropped like a shot.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I ran over toward the door, where Knowlton was lying on the floor, and so did the others. As I was standing near him I saw a wallet sticking out of his hip pocket, and I knew they—”

“You mean Knowlton’s pocket?”

“Yes. And I was afraid one of the guys might take it, so I stooped down when no one was looking and pulled it out of his pocket—it was nearly out already—and put it in my own, thinking to keep it for him. Dumain had sent somebody—”

Mr. Brand interrupted.

“Never mind the others. What did you do?”

“I waited till the doctor came, and when he said Knowlton’s injury was not serious I went home. I believe Knowlton stayed at Dumain’s rooms all night. When I got home I put his wallet away—”

“Why didn’t you return it to him before you left Dumain’s rooms?”

“Because he was still half unconscious. He was in no condition to talk to. Then the next afternoon, I think it was—”

“Aren’t you sure?”

“Yes,” said the witness, after a moment’s hesitation, “it was the next afternoon. I took the wallet out of the drawer where I had put it away, thinking to take it round to Knowlton’s rooms, and as I put it in my pocket I happened to look into it, just out of curiosity, and I nearly fell over when I saw it was full of counterfeit—”

Lawyer Siegel sprang to his feet:

“I object, on the ground that the witness is incompetent.”

“Sustained,” said the judge.

“Exception,” said Mr. Brant.

The judge turned to the witness:

“Confine yourself to a recital of your own actions.”

“Did you return the wallet to Knowlton?” asked the prosecuting attorney.

Sherman answered: “No, sir.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I kept it awhile, then I took it to Detective Barrett, of the secret service.”

The prosecuting attorney took something from a leather case on the desk before him and, handing it to the witness, asked:

“Do you recognize that?”

“Yes,” said Sherman. “It’s the wallet I’ve been talking about.”

“Is it the one you took from Knowlton’s pocket?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Inspect the contents. Are they the same as when you first saw it?”

There was a pause while the witness examined each of the compartments of the wallet, then he answered:

“Yes, sir.”

“Everything the same?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Brant stepped forward and took the wallet from Sherman and handed it to the clerk of the court:

“Your honor,” said he, “I wish to introduce this wallet as evidence, with its contents. I shall call an expert later to prove that they are counterfeit.”

This was a blow to the defense which, though not entirely unexpected, appeared to be serious. The Erring Knights looked gloomily at each other, but forbore to speak.

Lila was scarcely breathing in the intensity of her anxiety, while Mrs. Berry patted her hand soothingly. The accused was whispering excitedly to his attorney, who listened with keen interest, nodding his head with satisfaction at intervals. The result of this conference was to appear later.

The prosecuting attorney asked his witness a few more questions, for the most part unimportant, then turned him over for cross-examination.

Lawyer Siegel rose to his feet. He had not an impressive appearance, but as he stepped directly in front of Sherman he shot at him a glance so severe and terrifying that the witness involuntarily recoiled.

The tone was no less severe:

“How long did you keep this wallet before you turned it over to Detective Barrett?”

Sherman’s answer was low:

“About two months.”

“Why?”

But Mr. Brant objected to the question, and was sustained.

Siegel resumed:

“You say somebody hit Knowlton on the head with ‘a piece of bronze or something.’ Who was it that threw that bronze?”

The witness was silent.

“Who was it?” repeated the lawyer.

Sherman stammered:

“I did.”

“I see. Had you been fighting with him?”

“No.”

The attorney was shouting his questions with great rapidity, giving the witness barely time to answer, and no time at all to think. Sherman was nervously grasping the arm of his chair.

“Were you standing very close to Knowlton when you threw the bronze at him?”

“No, sir.”

“Across the room, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And as soon as he fell Dumain and Dougherty ran over and knelt down by him, didn’t they?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Jennings stopped you when you started to leave the room, didn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

The questions were coming like the rattle of a Gatling gun.

“And he forced you back to the corner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then he went to help the others with Knowlton?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were over in the opposite corner alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when you found the wallet, was it in the coat or the vest?”

“The coat.”

“Which pocket?”

“The insi—” Sherman began; then, realizing suddenly what he was saying, stopped short with a look of horror.

He was trapped.

The reason for his previous story of having taken the wallet from Knowlton’s hip pocket as he lay on the floor could be found only in the tortuous channels of Sherman’s treacherous brain.

Undoubtedly, he had thought to make his evidence stronger by making it appear that the thing had actually been taken from the person of the accused, and had anticipated the difficulty of proving that the coat was Knowlton’s. And now he was fairly caught.

Siegel pursued his advantage relentlessly. He hammered the witness with questions, and Sherman stammered and grew red in the face with helpless anger, and finally admitted that his first story had been false. That was all Siegel wanted; he sat down with a smile of triumph; his forehead was covered with beads of sweat.

On redirect examination the prosecuting attorney made a valiant attempt to bring his witness out of the hole he had dug for himself, but in vain. Sherman was hopelessly confused; he made matters worse instead of better, and ended by refusing to answer at all. He was dismissed by the court with a reprimand, and at a sign from Mr. Brant seated himself on the front row of benches.

For a few moments the progress of the trial was halted by a conference between the prosecuting attorney and Detective Barrett, while Knowlton whispered animatedly to his counsel and the faces of the Erring Knights beamed with joy.

“What did I tell you?” said Dougherty to Driscoll
sotto voce.
“Didn’t I say he was a slick guy?”

Then the prosecuting attorney turned to face the courtroom:

“Miss Williams, please take the stand.”

There was a silence. No one moved. Knowlton kept his eyes fastened on the desk before him. Three of the Erring Knights glanced accusingly at the other two.

Mr. Brant, whose temper had not been improved by the discrediting of Sherman’s testimony, looked directly at Lila, who had remained in her seat, and repeated his question.

“Will you please take the stand?”

Lila rose and faced him.

“Do you mean me?” she asked.

“Yes. I called your name. Take the stand.”

Lila did not move.

“I beg your pardon, but you did not call my name.”

“Aren’t you Miss Williams?” said Mr. Brant testily.

Lila answered clearly:

“No.”

The attorney started with incredulous surprise. Driscoll, Booth, and Jennings looked around at her in amazement, while Dougherty and Dumain smiled in their superior knowledge. Knowlton did not move.

Sherman sprang from his seat and, crossing to the side of Attorney Brant, whispered excitedly:

“That’s her, all right. They’re up to some trick. Call her up. She won’t lie on the stand.”

But Mr. Brant shook him off, and after a moment’s hesitation again spoke to Lila:

“Then what is your name?”

Lila sent a single fleeting glance to the prisoner, who had turned in his chair to face her; then looked directly at the questioner. Her answer was low, but distinct and half triumphant:

“Mrs. John Knowlton.”

Then she sat down and buried her face in her hands; and, as everybody stared at her in consternation, surprise, or wonder, Lawyer Siegel rose to his feet and addressed the listening judge:

“Your honor, this woman is the wife of the accused; and, therefore, may not be called as a witness by the prosecution. Your honor sees that she is in distress. May I ask that counsel be instructed not to question her further in court?”