The People's case rested.
Lydia was called. As she rose and walked behind the jury box toward the waiting Bible she realized exactly why it was that O'Bannon had put Alma on the stand the last of all his witnesses. It was to counteract with tragedy any appeal that youth and wealth and beauty might make to the emotions of the jury. Such a trick, it seemed to her, deserved a counter trick, and reconciled her to falsehood, even as she was swearing that her testimony would be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help her God.
Surely it was persecution for the law to stoop to such methods. She felt as hard as steel. Women do not get fair play, she thought. Here she was, wanting to fight like a tigress, and her only chance of winning was to appear as gentle and innocuous as the dove. She testified that her name was Lydia Janetta Thorne, her age twenty-four, her residence New York.
"Miss Thorne," said Wiley, very businesslike in manner, "for how many years have you driven a car?"
"For eight years."
"As often as three or four times a week?"
"Much oftener—constantly—every day."
"Have you ever been arrested for speeding?"
"Only once—about seven years ago in New Jersey."
"Were you fined or imprisoned?"