AN IMPORTANT MURDER TRIAL
Amongst the murder trials on the "Calendar of Prisoners" appeared "No 38; Madar Lal Dhingra, 25, Student, wilful murder of Sir William Hutt Curzon Wyllie and Dr. Cowas Lalcaca." This referred to the cowardly assassination of an English gentleman who had devoted his life to Indian administration and to benefiting the native races of that country, and to the murder of an Indian doctor, who lost his life in an effort to save him. The tragedy, the news of which had profoundly shocked the world less than three weeks before, occurred during an evening reception at the Imperial Institute. The prisoner, a fanatical Indian student, was believed to have borne no personal animosity to his victim.
No one knew exactly when the case would be reached, but it had been expected for several days when, one morning, the Old Bailey, in view of a possible disturbance by Indian sympathizers, was found to be carefully guarded by detectives. Except a small audience admitted by cards which were doubtless hard to procure and not transferable, the public, clamoring at the doors, were excluded from the Court, although one American lady, who appeared in one of the back seats, seemed to have had information and influence necessary to gain an entrée.
The barristers' benches, however, were so full that there was an unusual array of bewigged heads on that side of the court. The jury, already in place, and the small audience, waited in quiet but tense expectation. While one was idly noting the usual dried herbs and rose leaves on the desks and carpet of the judges' dais, the Lord Chief Justice seated himself and rolled his chair forward, a shaft of soft sun rays from the skylight accentuating his scarlet robe. The sheriffs bowed and took their seats at the side, and Dhingra's name was called.
Into the dock at the far end of the room popped the prisoner, guarded by two imperturbable policemen. He was a little, yellow youth with a Semitic or Oriental countenance, silky black hair much dishevelled and badly in need of the scissors, and eyes, so far as they were discernible under his gold-rimmed spectacles, of glittering black. He wore an ordinary gray suit and stood with his right hand thrust into the breast of his coat, suggesting that he had concealed there some weapon or, perhaps, poison; but of course he had long since been disarmed and under careful guard. His was a meagre figure, by no means conveying to an observer his own conceited estimate of his personality. When he spoke, though posing as a hero and martyr, he revealed only a sullen, sulky and venomous disposition and the ferocity of his character was attested by the premeditated and treacherous murder which he had committed.
The Clerk of Arraigns having asked whether the prisoner pleaded guilty or not guilty, his reply was at first not understood because of his broken English and his quick, spasmodic utterance. So his answer had to be repeated, as follows:
Prisoner: "First of all, I would say these words can not be used with regard to me at all. Whatever I did was an act of patriotism which was justified. The only thing I have got to say is contained in that statement, which I believe you have got."
The Clerk: "The only question is whether you plead guilty or not guilty to this indictment."
Prisoner: "Well, according to my view I will plead not guilty."
The Clerk: "Are you defended by counsel?"
Prisoner: "No."
There were three barristers for the prosecution, including the Attorney General who chiefly conducted the case. The Lord Chief Justice volunteered leave to the prisoner to sit down, which he did, appearing more diminutive than ever, in contrast with his guardians. The junior barrister having stated the names, the date and locality of the crime very briefly, the Attorney General opened the case for the prosecution in great detail, consuming a third of the ninety minutes which elapsed before sentence of death. In his opening, as is usual in England, he produced exhibits and read letters not yet offered in evidence.
In substance it was related that Dhingra came to England about three years before to study engineering and fell into the association of India House, a rendezvous in London of Indians of seditious proclivities. He lived in lodgings where he had few visitors and where, after the murder, was found a letter from Sir Curzon Wyllie which was read in the opening speech and which stated that the prisoner had been commended to the writer's protection and offered to be of service to him while in England. The story was told of his procuring a license to carry a weapon, of his purchase of a Colt's automatic magazine revolver and another revolver, of cartridges and of a long dagger—all of which were produced by the speaker and the triggers of the empty pistols snapped to show the jury how they worked.
An account of his frequent practice at a pistol gallery for three months and up to the very afternoon of the day of the tragedy and the use of a target the size of a man's head, preceded an exhibition of the last paper target used, when four bullets out of the five had pierced the bull's eye. The speaker described how Dhingra had called his victim aside into a vestibule while Lady Wyllie proceeded down the staircase, how he fired four shots pointblank, which passed through Sir Curzon's head; how Dr. Lalcaca had tried to intervene and was shot for his temerity, and how, finally, an elderly English baronet had grappled with the murderer and succeeded in wresting the revolver from him and bearing him to the floor.
The witnesses were then called and examined with great rapidity, the judge restricting their testimony to essentials and checking both counsel and witness from the slightest digression. This seemed to be carried almost to an extreme, as an untrained witness often brings forth an important fact amid much irrelevant verbosity. At the end of the direct examination of the first witness, his Lordship asked Dhingra if he wished to cross-examine. The latter growled a negative but added that he had something to say, whereupon he was informed that he would have an opportunity for that later. Thereafter, when asked the same question at the conclusion of each witness' evidence, he merely shook his head.
The prosecution having rested, Dhingra was asked if he had any witnesses and replied that he had not. The Lord Chief Justice then informed him that if he had anything to say, now would be his chance, and asked whether he desired to speak where he was—from the dock—or from the stand. The judge of course referred to the difference between a mere unsworn statement which might be in the nature of a plea to the jury to add a recommendation for mercy to their verdict, or, sworn testimony which might go to the merits of guilt or innocence. It was apparent that the prisoner, as he was without counsel, did not understand this question and, as well, that the judge did not comprehend his inability to grasp a distinction indicated in the question. Doubtless, as the prisoner was bound to be hanged—and he richly deserved it—the misunderstanding made not the slightest difference in this case, but one could not help feeling that the failure to provide counsel was a serious defect in the administration of justice.
Dhingra elected to remain in the dock and stated that he was unable to remember all he wanted to say, but that he had committed it to a writing which was in the possession of the police. This was then read by the Clerk but so falteringly owing to the manuscript being illegible, that the effect of the revolutionary diatribe was largely lost. The London Times, however, printed it the next day as follows:
"I do not want to say anything in defence of myself, but simply to prove the justice of my deed. For myself I do not think any English law court has got any authority to arrest me, or to detain me in prison, or to pass sentence of death upon me. That is the reason why I did not have any counsel to defend me. I maintain that if it would be patriotic in an Englishman to fight against the Germans, if they were to occupy this country, it is much more justifiable and patriotic in my case to fight against the English. I hold the English people responsible for the murder of eighty millions of my countrymen in the last fifty years, and they are also responsible for taking away £100,000,000 every year from India to this country.
"I also hold them responsible for the hanging and deportation of my patriotic countrymen, who do just the same as the English people here are advising their countrymen to do. An Englishman who goes out to India and gets, say, £100 a month, simply passes the sentence of death upon one thousand of my poor countrymen who could live on that £100 a month, which the Englishman spends mostly on his frivolities and pleasures.
"Just as the Germans have got no right to occupy this country, so the English people have no right to occupy India, and it is perfectly justifiable on our part to kill an Englishman who is polluting our sacred land.
"I am surprised at the terrible hypocrisy, farce, and mockery of the English people when they pose as champions of oppressed humanity such as in the case of the people of the Congo and of Russia, while there is such terrible oppression and such horrible atrocities in India. For example, they kill 2,000,000 of our people every year and outrage our women. If this country is occupied by Germans and an Englishman, not bearing to see the Germans walking with the insolence of conquerors in the streets of London, goes and kills one or two Germans, then, if that Englishman is held as a patriot by the people of this country, then certainly I am a patriot too, working for the emancipation of my Motherland. Whatever else I have to say is in the statement now in the possession of the court. I make this statement, not because I wish to plead for mercy or anything of that kind. I wish the English people will sentence me to death, for in that case the vengeance of my countrymen will be all the more keen. I put forward this statement to show the justice of my cause to the outside world, especially to our sympathizers in America and Germany. That is all."
His Lordship then asked the prisoner if he wished to say anything more.
The prisoner at first said "No", but just as the Lord Chief Justice was commencing to sum up the case to the jury, Dhingra said there was another statement on foolscap paper.
His Lordship: "Any other statement you must make now yourself."
Prisoner: "I do not remember it now."
His Lordship: "You must make any statement you wish to the jury. If there is anything, say it now."
Prisoner: "It was taken from my pocket amongst other papers."
His Lordship: "I do not care what was in your pocket. With what you had written before, we have nothing to do. You can say anything you wish to the jury. What you have written on previous occasions is no evidence in this case. If you wish to say anything to the jury in defence of yourself, say it now. Do you wish to say anything more?"
Prisoner: "No."
The Lord Chief Justice then summed up the case to the jury in a charge occupying but six minutes. He said that the evidence was absolutely conclusive; that the jury had no concern with any political justification for the crime, for if anything of the kind were considered it would be in the carrying of the sentence into effect—with which the jury had nothing to do—that this was an ordinary crime by which a blameless man, who had devoted himself to the public service and had done much for the natives of India, had lost his life, and that it was quite plain there had been premeditation. His Lordship added that there was nothing which could induce the jury to reduce the crime from murder to manslaughter, nor was it suggested that Dhingra was insane, so that if the jury believed the uncontradicted evidence the only possible verdict was one of wilful murder.
Without leaving the box the jury put their heads together and, in less than a minute, the foreman arose and uttered the fateful word "Guilty."
There are no degrees of murder in England, but in cases where a weak intellect or greatly extenuating circumstances render hanging too severe a penalty, the Home Secretary may exercise a power of commutation. Thereupon Dhingra having been ordered to stand up, the clerk addressed him as follows: "You stand convicted of the crime of wilful murder. Have you anything to say for yourself, why sentence of death should not be passed on you according to law?"
Prisoner: (with a snarl) "I have told you once I do not acknowledge the authority of the Court. You can do whatever you like with me—I do not care. Remember, one day we shall be all-powerful, and then we can do what we like."
Then followed absolute silence for two minutes—a silence in which the breathing of persons near was audible.
Slowly the Lord Chief Justice lifted from his desk a piece of black cloth. It was the "Black Cap." One naturally thinks, from its name, that this is a kind of headgear corresponding to the shape of a man's head. On the contrary, it looks like a piece of plain limp cloth, a remnant from a tailor's shop, about a foot square, which the judge places on the top of his wig, letting it rest there quite casually and perhaps at a rakish angle, the four corners hanging down and the whole producing a somewhat ludicrous effect. Neither judge, jury, nor audience, rose when sentence was about to be pronounced, but all remained seated, except the prisoner, who stood in dreary isolation, flanked by his stalwart guard, at his elevated station in the dock. His Lordship, the dignity of whose well-modulated voice contrasted strongly with his comical head covering, slowly addressed the prisoner as follows:
The Sentencing of Dhingra
"Madar Lal Dhingra, no words of mine can have the slightest effect upon you, nor do I intend to say anything more than to point out to you that you have been convicted upon the clearest possible evidence of the brutal murder of an innocent man. The law enforces upon me to pass the only possible sentence in such a case."
The sentence was that the prisoner should be hanged by the neck until he was dead and be buried at the place of execution.
The Chaplain, in his robes, having somehow appeared at his Lordship's side, added: "Amen. And may God have mercy upon your soul."
Immediately after the dread words had been uttered, the prisoner saluted the grave judge by a salaam, bringing the back of his hand to his forehead, and said in a manner, the impertinence of which deprived his words of dignity: "Thank you, my Lord. I am proud to have the honor of laying down my life for my country. I do not care."
Counsel representing the relatives of the condemned man then arose and said that he was instructed to say that they viewed the crime with the greatest abhorrence and wished to repudiate in the most emphatic way the slightest sympathy with the views and motives which had led to it, adding, on behalf of the father and family, that there were no more loyal subjects of the Empire than themselves. His Lordship replied that, while the course might seem somewhat unusual, yet, having regard to the wicked attempt at justification in some quarters, he was glad for what had been said on behalf of the members of the family.
Dhingra and his guards then disappeared from the dock and in a few moments the Lord Chief Justice and his escort, as well as the small audience, had withdrawn, leaving the court room deserted except for a newspaper reporter who was completing his notes. And so the drama closed.
One was told that the youthful student would probably be hanged in a fortnight from the following Tuesday—the trial having taken place on a Friday—as ancient custom entitled the condemned man to three Sundays of life after sentence.[B]
The spectacle of this little, lonely, misguided, yellow man, prompted partly by fanaticism but largely by vanity, having braved the whole power of mighty Britain in its proud capital to exploit his chimerical views, caught in the meshes of a law he hardly understood and hemmed in on all sides by its remorseless ministers, was deeply interesting and somewhat calculated to excite sympathy, until one's reason summoned the significance of the treacherous murder and the picture of a fair Englishwoman going out into that London night a widow.
While the result of this trial was justice, swift and unerring, to an American observer it seemed odd and scarcely a fair practice for a man to be tried for his life unrepresented by counsel learned in the law. Although the case was plain, nevertheless, with great respect for the admirable administration of the law in England, it must be remarked that innocent persons,—who, even if not mentally defective, may none the less be far from clever and who are necessarily inexperienced, and may perhaps lack the intelligence or means to retain counsel—ought not to be permitted by the court to pit their wits against an able officer of the crown, the stake being their own necks. To excuse the omission on the ground of the obvious guilt and callousness of the prisoner, is not a satisfactory solution, because it would involve prejudging the issue to be tried. The proper and humane course is followed in the United States—the appointment by the court of counsel for an undefended prisoner—for it guards against the possibility of terrible mistakes.
From a technical point of view, the "leading" nature of the direct examinations, so noticeable in English courts, was especially conspicuous in that this was a murder trial where no departure from the recognized customs would have been permitted. One's ear grows accustomed to questions which put the answer into the mouth of the witness and require merely a monosyllabic assent; and one waits in vain for the objection which, at home, would follow such infractions of the rules of evidence as thunder succeeds lightning. In the Dhingra trial, for instance, the Attorney General did not scruple to ask such questions as the following:
Q: "Did you happen to look through the doorway and into the vestibule and see the prisoner speaking to Sir Curzon Wyllie and did you see him raise his hand and fire four shots into his face, the pistol almost touching him?"
Q: "Did you see Sir Curzon Wyllie collapse?"
Q: "Then, was there an interval of some seconds and then more shots?" (These killed Dr. Lalcaca.)
Nor did he hesitate to put such questions to another witness as:
Q: "Did you hear the noise of four shots and did you then look and see the prisoner and did you see him shoot again?"
A police officer was asked:
Q: "Did you examine the pistol and find one undischarged cartridge only?"
Q: "Had the other pistol six undischarged cartridges in it?"
Q: "Did you find two bullets similar to these in the wall?"
To such an extent was leading carried in the Dhingra trial that occasionally the answer did not follow the lead, thus:
Q: "Did you ask him 'What is your name and where do you live?'"
A: "I can't remember what I asked him."
The probable reason for the great latitude in this regard is the fact that apparently nothing in an English trial is a surprise—except to the jury. The court and counsel, knowing practically all the evidence beforehand, are extremely lenient.
Not only are leading questions common but also questions asking for conclusions—not for facts from which the jury may draw their own deductions. Thus, in the Dhingra trial, a doctor, who was sent for after the murder, was asked: "Did the prisoner seem calm, quiet and collected?" A plaintiff, perhaps, will be asked: "How came the defendant to write this letter and what was its object? Did he consider himself remiss?" Of course an American lawyer would successfully contend that a letter speaks for itself, while a man's estimate of his own position could only be put in evidence by repeating his admissions in that regard—not by asking his opponent how he regarded himself.
In favor of the practice of asking witnesses for conclusions—a practice which many American lawyers have found invalidates parts of testimony taken in England for use here—much may be said. To ask a witness the mental attitude of a person, whom he heard talking a year before—whether he was angry, or joking, for example—is to ask an answerable question; but to require him to repeat the exact words, is to demand an impossibility. In replying to either form of inquiry the witness may be honest or the reverse, so that the chances of intentional misinformation are equally balanced, but an attempt at verbatim repetition nearly always requires, consciously or unconsciously, a draft upon the imagination. It seems that our rules of evidence in this regard might, perhaps, be cautiously relaxed with advantage, to accord more with practical experience.
An English criminal trial is quick, simple and direct. Dhingra, for example, whose crime was committed on July first, was sentenced on the twenty-first of that month and was hanged on August seventeenth—all in forty-seven days. The simplicity and directness of such trials is due to the absence of irrelevant testimony and imaginative arguments; these, counsel scarcely ever attempt to introduce—so certain is their exclusion by the judge. Thus, the real object of all punishment—its deterrent effect upon others—is greatly enhanced because it is swift and sure. The public, moreover, are usually spared the scandal and demoralizing effects of prolonged, spectacular and sensational trials.
Until a short time ago any person convicted in an English court was without appeal—the rulings and sentence of a single judge were final—but this manifest injustice has lately been cured by a law granting the right of appeal. It is too soon to estimate the effect of this change, but the prediction may be ventured that the ancient habit of regarding criminal judgments as conclusive, together with the saving common sense which characterizes all English courts, will probably prevent any radical departure from the present methods, which have much to commend them.
Comparison with American conditions is most difficult because, besides the United States courts extending for certain purposes over the whole country, there are forty-six absolutely separate sovereignties whose administration of criminal law, unless in conflict with the Constitution of the United States, is as independent of the rest of the world as that of an empire. Consequently, while differences exist in methods and results, the remarkable fact is that they are, upon the whole, so similar, when only a common tradition and a fairly homogeneous public opinion serve to keep them from drifting in diverse directions.
The administration of criminal law by the United States Courts deals chiefly with the trial of persons accused of murder on the high seas, counterfeiting, forgery, smuggling or postal frauds, defaulting bank officials and, very lately, corporation managers charged with favoritism in freight rates, or with the maintenance of monopolies affecting interstate commerce. Throughout the length and breadth of the land it is prompt, thoroughly dignified, vigorous and fair; indeed, its excellence, as a whole, suffers little if at all by comparison with the best English standards, which have been perfected only by centuries of experience in the highly concentrated population of a small Island.
But turning to the individual States, all comparisons must depend upon locality. New York, the landing place, that threshold of real America, with a predominating foreign population; the western frontiers of civilization, and the South, with its peculiar racial conditions, suffer by comparison with British standards far more than would one of the orderly communities composing the greater part of the Republic.
Recent mal-administration of criminal law in New York constitutes a subject of national mortification, but the existence of this sensitiveness is the best of reasons for believing that time will bring an improvement. Unfortunately for the good name of the country, foreigners do not comprehend, and can hardly be made to appreciate, that the instances of private assassination in that city followed by trials, which, whether owing to a vicious system of practice or to judicial incompetency, excite the indignation and ridicule of the world, are not typical of America but are expressions of purely local and probably temporary conditions. Foreign critics should be told that New York is not America, as many of them assume, and that temporary and local lapses do not prove a low standard. They may also be reminded, as showing that human justice is fallible, that even in London if a man walks into an Oxford Street department store, lies in wait for the proprietor against whom he has a grievance and blows out his brains, although he will be convicted in a trial occupying but three hours, yet the Home Secretary may intervene and prevent his hanging, upon a petition signed by tens of thousands of sentimentalists moved by the rather illogical fact that his wife contemplates an addition to a thus celebrated family.
In the far West, criminal practice is probably neither better nor worse than in any other rough frontier of civilization where men must largely rely upon their own resources, rather than upon the government, for the protection of their lives and property. Conditions in the South are so peculiar, owing to the sudden elevation to a legal equality of an inferior race which is in the majority, that no comparison with any other community is possible. Without in the least condoning existing conditions, it may even be said that lynching, unlike private assassination, involves some degree of co-operation and is the expression of public, rather than of individual, vengeance. The theatre of these outrages is, moreover, sparsely settled, beyond large cities or centres of education, and still retains some of the features of a frontier.
Throughout much the largest area, however, constituting the solid civilization and containing the bulk of the population of this immense country, no such conditions exist. On the contrary, crime is met with that steady and impartial justice, inherited from England, which neither partakes of the police oppression of continental countries, nor lapses into the barbarism of the exceptional localities above referred to. To commit deliberate murder in one of the eastern States, such as Pennsylvania, or Massachusetts, or in one of the great commonwealths of the middle West, means sure and reasonably speedy hanging.
But, bearing in mind the difficulty of accurate comparisons between such diversified sections and a compact unit like England, and endeavoring to arrive at a general estimate, it must be conceded that America, as a whole, has even more to learn from England's criminal, than from her civil, courts.