LITMIR.BIZ

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could convict without leaving the box. There was nothing left for old Tutt to do but try to extract additional denials from his already discredited client.

      But the old lawyer made no such move. Instead he remarked:

      “Mr. Mooney, you were asked whether you had not been previously convicted of assault, and you replied in the affirmative. I now ask you whom you were charged with assaulting?”

      “Micky Morrison.”

      “Who arrested you for the alleged offense?”

      “Officer Delaney.”

      “You mean this same officer who has just sworn that he found a pistol in your pocket?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Mr. Tutt drew in his lips.

      “That is all!” said he, without further attempt to rehabilitate his client. Then as Mooney left the stand Mr. Tutt addressed Judge Watkins:

      “If Your Honor please, I had intended calling a character witness—a former employer—in behalf of the defendant, but what has transpired would seem to make any such testimony immaterial.” He hesitated for an instant, and to O’Brien came the sudden thought that the old lawyer might be going to throw up the sponge and plead his client guilty after all. But to his astonishment he heard Mr. Tutt say: “There is one thing, however, to which I invite the court’s attention. The prosecutor has produced a loaded pistol here which he claims was found in my client’s possession. It is the basis of the charge against him. Yet the district attorney for some reason best known to himself has not offered it in evidence. Unless this is done, in view of the fact that the pistol has been exhibited to the jury, I shall ask for a dismissal.”

      O’Brien rose languidly to his feet.

      “The merest oversight, Your Honor. Here is the pistol. I offer it in evidence.”

      “I object,” said Mr. Tutt—“unless it appears on the record from whose custody it is produced, how it got there, and that it is in the same condition as when received.”

      “Mr. Tutt is technically correct,” nodded His Honor.

      The Bloodhound’s lips curled.

      “I got it from Officer Delaney this morning, and have had it in my pocket all the time. It is exactly as I received it. Does that satisfy you?”

      “Not unless you so testify upon the stand,” answered the old lawyer, looking fixedly at O’Brien, who experienced a curiously sickening sensation.

      “If Mr. Tutt insists you will have to be sworn,” ruled His Honor. “But it is a rather unusual demand for any lawyer to make under the circumstances.”

      “This is a rather unusual case,” retorted Mr. Tutt, unperturbed.

      O’Brien shifted his feet uneasily. He did not like the idea of facing Mr. Tutt from the witness chair—not in the least! Still—there was no help for it. With the pistol in his hand he ascended the stand, took the oath and without sitting down repeated in a rather shaky voice what he had just said.

      “Have you any cross-examination?” asked Judge Watkins.

      “I have,” replied Mr. Tutt amid a sudden silence. What could the old codger be up to?

      “You are one of the public prosecutors of this county?” he asked quietly.

      “I am,” shot back the Bloodhound.

      “And you are sworn to uphold the law?”

      “Yes.”

      “To prosecute those of whose guilt you are satisfied through the introduction of legal evidence in a legal manner?”

      “Of course.” O’Brien’s uneasiness was growing, But Mr. Tutt’s next question momentarily allayed his anxiety while arousing his irritation.

      “Where were you born?”

      “New York City.”

      Judge Watkins frowned at the questioner. This procedure was not at all according to Hoyle.

      “Gas House section?”

      One of the jury sniggered. His Honor raised his hand in gentle admonition.

      “Is this relevant, Mr. Tutt? I do not wish to criticise, but your question seems rather trivial.”

      Mr. Tutt bowed.

      “This is cross-examination,” he replied. “However, I will withdraw it. Do you know one Micky Morrison, Mr. O’Brien?”

      “Yes,” scowled the Bloodhound.

      “How much did you pay him for your appointment as assistant district attorney?”

      O’Brien turned first red, then white. Judge Watkins brought down his gavel.

      “That will do!” he remarked. “The jury will disregard the question!”

      “If Your Honor please,” replied Mr. Tutt quietly, “I have as much right to attack this witness’ credibility as he had to attack that of my client. I press the question in another form:

      “Did you not pay six thousand dollars to Michael McGurk to be delivered to Micky Morrison in consideration for his securing your appointment as assistant district attorney?”

      “I did not!” shouted O’Brien. “And you know it! Your Honor, are you going to permit me to be insulted in this way?”

      But a puzzled if not actually bewildered look had settled upon the learned justice’s countenance. To coin a distinctly new phrase there was “a far-away look” in his gray eyes.

      “Do you know Red Burke, alias the Roach; Tony Savelli, otherwise known as the Greaser; and Dynamite Tom Meeghan?”

      “Mr. Tutt,” expostulated Judge Watkins, “you may have a technical right to test the witness’ credibility, but the matter is within my discretion and——”

      “That is the precise question he asked my client,” replied Mr. Tutt coolly. “What is sauce for the goose should be sauce for the gander.”

      “He may answer your question if you press it,” acquiesced His Honor. “But there must be a limit to this sort of thing.”

      “Only a few more questions, Your Honor. Mr. O’Brien, have you ever been convicted of crime?”

      “No!” valiantly answered the prosecutor, now gray as a ghost, for he saw his doom advancing upon him.

      “Have you ever committed one?”

      O’Brien choked.

      “I won’t force you to answer that!” threw in Mr. Tutt gallantly.

      “Have you any basis for that question?” demanded His Honor sharply.

      Mr. Tutt smiled first at the jury and then at Judge Watkins.

      “Your Honor,” he replied in his most engaging manner, “you and I perhaps belong to a generation which has old-fashioned ideas of honor. I admit that I have had no basis for any of the questions which I have just asked the witness. Honor demands that I should do so; yet, in a sense, honor demanded that I should ask them, although I might later have to disown their sincerity. But, sir”—and his old voice rose high and vibrant—“but, sir, I do not abandon my attack upon this witness’ credibility. I have but one more question to ask of him, and upon his answer I stake my client’s liberty. Let this witness but answer any way he may see fit—yes or no, I care not which—give any reply at all that may be officially recorded here, and not hereafter be disputed or denied by him—and these twelve men may return a verdict against my client.”

      Something in the old lawyer’s tone drew the jury as one man toward the front of the box. Judge Watkins was gazing intently at Mr. Tutt. The faces in the court-room

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