The Prisoner at the Bar: Sidelights on the Administration of Criminal Justice

by Arthur Cheney Train

"I desire to see the property clerk," says Mr. Appleboy, "and to secure the return of a teapot which was stolen from me."

"The property clerk's office closes at four o'clock," says the officer; "you'll have to come to-morrow morning, at nine."

Appleboy is disgusted; he has spent what is practically an entire afternoon in the pursuit of his teapot and has accomplished nothing.

"It's outrageous," he cries; "the idea of a public office closing at four o'clock in the afternoon! What do these fellows do, I would like to know, to earn their salary? Nine to four,—pooh! Why, it isn't half a day's work."

The officer has turned on his heel and walks slowly away, leaving Mr. Appleboy fuming by the door. The corridor is musty and dark, its stone flagging worn by the tread of millions of heavily booted feet. Poor old Mr. Appleboy is very tired; the dingy windows, the gloomy corridor, the unsympathetic policeman, the noise and smells of the Italian quarter, the weary trip to the district attorney's office and to the station house have brought him almost to the verge of tears. He is ashamed to go home and tell his wife that he has accomplished nothing,—he has not even seen the teapot. Feeling very small indeed Appleboy pushes open the door and passes out upon Mulberry Street. No one notices him; in this official world a bank president is but a unit among the countless multitudes of the public. He stumbles into a subway train, seeks sanctuary in his club and takes a Turkish bath.

Let us pass over the painful scene upon the return of Appleboy teapotless. His lady is hardly to be blamed for showing irritation over her husband's failure to recover that interesting relic and valuable domestic adjunct. She knows she could have done much better herself. At any rate she would not now calmly return home from the court with the humiliating admission that the prisoner had escaped and that the teapot had disappeared. Things are very unpleasant that evening, and no suggestion on the part of Appleboy that they go to the theatre or the opera will bring a smile over the features of his irate spouse.

The next morning Mr. Appleboy is up betimes. He does not wait for his wife to come down to breakfast, but pours himself a cup of coffee and snatches a roll at the sideboard. A quarter to nine finds him at Police Headquarters. In the clear morning sunshine the building does not look so repellent, and he trots up the steps, pushes open the door, and, avoiding his adversary of the afternoon before, saunters nonchalantly down the corridor until he sees a small door at the top of a couple of steps bearing the legend, "Property Clerk's Office."

The property clerk, whoever he is, is already there. Appleboy finds himself in a small room divided by a wire grating; this has a small opening through which he is obliged to converse with the official in charge.

"I have come to get a teapot which was stolen from me," explains Appleboy.

"What is the state of the case?" inquires the property clerk.