THE JOKE ON PRESTON
By Lewis Allen
“Has the prisoner secured counsel?”
“No, your honour,” responded District Attorney Masters.
Judge Horton looked over the tops of his steel-rimmed spectacles, first at the unkempt prisoner, and then around the courtroom.
“The court will provide counsel for your defense. Have you any choice?” he asked the prisoner.
The prisoner had not. He didn’t know one man from another in the courtroom. A faint suspicion of a smile showed on District Attorney Master’s face. He winked slyly at several of his brother attorneys, and even smiled rather knowingly at the judge when he made the suggestion that the court appoint Mr. Preston attorney for the defense. A titter went around the courtroom at this, and young John Preston flushed to the roots of his yellow hair as he arose and went forward to consult with his client.
“Honest to God, are you a lawyer?” asked the prisoner, in a voice that carried. It took nearly two minutes to restore decorum.
In spite of his embarrassment young Preston thanked the court and asked for a day’s postponement in order to acquaint himself with his client’s case. This was granted, and after adjournment the District Attorney took young Preston aside, put his hand patronizingly on his shoulder, and said:
“Great Scott, Johnnie, give the poor devil a square deal! The only thing in the world for him is a plea of guilty and a request for leniency.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Preston rather stiffly, “but I at least want to know something of my client’s case.”
“Now, now, Johnnie, you must learn to take things in the proper spirit. Every young lawyer must have his first case, and he must expect a certain amount of good-natured raillery over it, and, believe me, it isn’t every man fresh from law school who gets a murder case for the very first thing. Be sensible about it, boy. I’m advising you for your father’s sake. We were partners, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” answered Preston.
“Oh, don’t be stubborn, Johnnie! Why, dash it all, the prisoner has confessed!”
“A great many innocent men have confessed under the third degree,” and young Preston bowed rather too formally and turned on his heel.
“He’ll get the chair if you fight the case,” snapped the District Attorney.
“He’ll get the chair—or liberty, sir,” was all young Preston replied, and he hurried over to the jail, where he was secluded in the cell with his client, the prisoner.
It wasn’t much of a story the prisoner told. He said his name was Farral, that he was a plain hobo, and that with another hobo he had got into a fight with a freight brakeman who wouldn’t let them jump the train. Both picked up lumps of coal to defend themselves, and in the mix-up the poor brakeman’s skull was crushed. He managed to shoot and kill the other hobo, but he died before they got him to the hospital.
Young Preston said nothing, for five minutes. Farral became nervous. Finally he said:
“Say, kid, I ain’t blamin’ you any. You gotter have your first case some time, and so they wished you on me. The only thing to do is to plead guilty to self-defense——”
“Never do,” said young Preston. “There isn’t a juryman in the county who would agree to justifiable homicide.”
“But I confessed, kid; I confessed. Whatcher goin’ to do about it now?”
“Just what did you say? Give me the exact words.”
“I says to the captain, ‘Don’t put me through no third degree. I killed him!’”
“What made you say that?”
“They’d put it on me anyway. I thought it would help me.”
“What was the name of the man with you?”
“I don’t know. I never saw him before.”
“His name was Ichabod Jones,” said Preston impressively, “and don’t you ever forget it. Remember, you have known this man for a long while and that he went under the name of ‘Black Ike.’”
Preston talked a half-hour longer with the man and drilled him over and over before he left him.
When the case came up the prosecution introduced witnesses sufficient to prove that the brakeman had been killed and then introduced the confession.
“We rest the case there, your honour,” said District Attorney Masters, with somewhat of a flourish.
Young Preston put his client on the stand without delay and had him tell his story of the fight, which was to the effect that it was not he, but the other man, who killed the brakeman.
“What was the other man’s name?” asked Preston.
“Ichabod Jones,” replied the prisoner; “at least, that’s what he told me.”
“How did you always address him?”
“I always called him Ike.”
“You may tell the court just what you said in this alleged confession.”
“I didn’t make no confession. I said to the captain, ‘Don’t put me through no third degree. Ike killed him.’”
And, for all that the prosecuting attorney could prove to the contrary, Ike did.