LITMIR.BIZ

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Tutt smiled with the old-time courtesy he invoked when in his most dangerous mood.

      “I am sorry to have unduly delayed the proceedings, Mr. O’Brien. We plead not guilty, and we ask an immediate trial.”

      It was at this moment that the Devil, in the shape of Delaney the cop, leaned over the rail and plucked the Bloodhound’s sleeve.

      “S-st, Mr. O’Brien! Put the screws on him and he’ll plead guilty. We’ve got him cold. Here’s the gun I took off him—loaded.”

      He shoved the revolver into O’Brien’s hand, and the latter, always willing to oblige, slipped it into his pocket.

      “Has he got a record?” he asked sideways.

      “Sure! Just out of stir. Caught him with a valise full of stuff he took out of a cigar store. He’s an old-timer—Gas House Gang. If he won’t plead, stick him right on trial. It’s a pipe! A conviction sure!”

      The Bloodhound nodded.

      “Leave him to me! Here, you!”—addressing Mooney and Mr. Tutt together and as one—“plead guilty and I’ll give you attempted grand in the second.”

      Mr. Tutt gravely shook his head.

      “No,” he replied. “I cannot let an innocent man falsely admit under any conditions that he is guilty.”

      O’Brien’s face hardened.

      “Suit yourself!” he snapped back. “If he doesn’t he’ll get the limit.”

      “Not unless he’s convicted!” murmured Mr. Tutt.

      “Oh!” sneered his adversary. “You think you can get him off, do you? Don’t fool yourself! It’s a dead open-and-shut case. Will you or won’t you? If you won’t he’ll be on his way up the river by two o’clock.”

      Mr. Tutt’s blood boiled and tingled.

      “Mister District Attorney,” he said sternly, “may I ask if you have examined into the merits of this case?”

      “I’ve seen the only witness there is!” retorted O’Brien. “This man is an ex-convict. His picture is in the gallery. So are his thumb tracks. He’s guilty all right, all right! He’s got no more chance than an icicle in Hades.”

      “Have you talked to him? Have you heard his story? Have you questioned the officer who arrested him?” went on the old lawyer.

      “I have not! And I don’t intend to!” answered O’Brien shortly. “He can tell his story on the stand—and if there’s anything to it the jury can acquit him.”

      “What chance has he got to have the jury believe him if you bring out the fact that he has been in prison?” asked Mr. Tutt. “It will hopelessly prejudice them against him.”

      “That’s why he’d better plead guilty!” grinned the Bloodhound.

      “And you call that justice!” cried Mr. Tutt, his lips quivering. “Well, put him on trial—and be damned to you!”

      “I will!” laughed O’Brien. “I’ll put him on trial in ten minutes—as soon as the pleas are over. And then”—he bent over past Mooney and leered into Mr. Tutt’s face—“and then be damned to you!”

      As the court officer marched Mooney back to the pen a hand pulled Mr. Tutt by the coat tails. He turned and looked into the homely face of the girl in the shawl.

      “Oh, sir,” she begged, “for God’s sake don’t let them frame him! That brute Delaney was a witness against him on his first trial. He’s Morrison’s man. They’ve made up their minds to railroad him. Oh, sir! Save him! He’s a brave, good lad that never harmed anyone. I know you’re a big lawyer and don’t bother with the likes of us, but”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“I’ve saved ninety dollars, and it’s yours if you get him off!”

      Mr. Tutt patted her arm.

      “All right! All right!” he said soothingly. “I’ll do my best, but not for your money! What’s your name, my girl?”

      “Annie Murphy.”

      “Do you know the man Paddy worked for before he was sent up?”

      “Sure!”

      “Go bring him here.”

      The girl hurried away and Mr. Tutt walked back to his seat.

      “If I ever get that fellow to rights,” he muttered, eying O’Brien as he swaggered at the rail, “may God have mercy on his soul!”

      IV

      In the good old mediæval days our Teutonic relatives had a jovial habit of strapping any particularly unruly serf beneath the belly of a wild horse and then hunting him to death with dogs. The serf in this pleasant game had very little chance, but at any rate he had a fair start, and the horse did not have a ball and chain attached to his leg. But in the coming course, in which the dogs of law would run down Paddy Mooney if they could, he was handicapped in two ways: first, he had a ball and chain on his leg in the shape of his prison record; and second, in addition to the hatred which O’Brien entertained for all defendants, and particularly for those who had served terms in prison, he was the object of the prosecutor’s special malignity because he was to be defended by Mr. Tutt, who on more than one celebrated occasion had shown the braggart up for what he was. To his ancient grudge, fed fat by years of successful opposition upon the old lawyer’s part, was now added the smart of present insult. His rage against Mooney for not being willing to plead guilty fanned his fury against Mr. Tutt, and his hatred of Mr. Tutt transformed his anger against Mooney to poisonous serpents. To be in any way foiled made him a madman.

      “Come here!” he growled at Delaney as he dragged him into the corridor. “Give me the goods on this fellow! I’ll teach that sanctimonious old he-devil a lesson he won’t forget in a hurry!”

      The heart of Delaney leaped within him. That was the bally boy! He would have another conviction to add to his scroll of honor, and maybe the D. A. would write the Commissioner a letter of commendation, praising his services in sending up Mooney for another bit! Anyhow, Micky Morrison wouldn’t forget it! Promotion dazzled him! He could have kissed O’Brien or licked his boots—which latter alternative most of us would have preferred.

      “Listen here!” he said, fawning upon the prosecutor. “It’s a cinch. I caught this guy and another gun—Mulligan—wit’ a bag of goods. I gave ye the cannon I took off him already. Mulligan’ll turn state’s evidence for a suspended sentence. Everybody’s here! You’ll eat him alive!”

      “All right! Tell Mulligan I’ll use him; and bring him up into one of the jury rooms and go over his story with him. I don’t want any slip-up now! I’m doing you a favor by trying this case myself.”

      “I know you are, Mr. O’Brien! I know you are!” declared Delaney in those tones of unctuous adoration that were as parmacety to the inward bruises of the Bloodhound’s soul. “ ’Tis the next district attorney you’re going to be!”

      “Then get busy! Get busy!” ordered O’Brien, stalking back toward the court room.

      The reader might well be pardoned were he incredulous of what O’Brien and Delaney purposed to do. Fortunately such prosecutors are rare; but once in a generation—perhaps even more often—they arise; and against their villainy judges and lawyers are generally powerless, for their assassinations are hidden beneath the cloak of law and the pretense of public service. Little did the judge upon the bench wot of the proposed tragedy; had he done so he would have arisen and rent his official garments. But Mr. Tutt knew, and his heart turned faint within his old frock coat. O Justice, what crimes are sometimes committed in thy name!

      V

      The last disconsolate

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