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

by Arthur Cheney Train

"Jury satisfactory to both sides?" inquires the clerk.

"Entirely so," reply the little bald-headed man and the prosecutor together.

Suddenly the lank youth leans over and whispers to the lawyer, who after a moment's conversation beckons to the prosecutor. There is a brief consultation and the assistant tosses the indictment to the clerk with the announcement:

"He pleads guilty."

The defendant gets up and shuffles to the bar, where his pedigree is taken and a day set for his sentence, which, in the event of his never having been convicted before, will probably be a fine of twenty-five dollars or a month in the penitentiary.

"Call the next case," says the judge.

"People against Thompson," shouts the clerk. "Bring up Thompson."

The door in the back of the room opens and "Thompson" is "brought up." He is a good-looking young negro, defended by a member of his own race. The jury say they have no prejudice against negroes and are sworn without leaving the box. The charge is one of assault in the first degree—that is to say, with intent to kill. The complainant is a flashily dressed young mulatto woman, who asserts that the defendant "done crack her head wif an ice-pitcher," and produces the fragments of pitcher, done up in a newspaper. She admits that at the time of the unfortunate occurrence she was living with the defendant as his wife. There are no other witnesses for the People, and the defendant is sworn without more ado. He explains that the complainant accused him of being too attentive to a "yaller gal" on the next street and when he attempted to go out of the house she attacked him with a pen-knife. In confirmation of this he exhibits a small cicatrix on his wrist. After hearing the evidence the assistant announces to the judge that the case ought in his opinion to have been disposed of in the police court and that the interests of justice will be subserved if his Honor will discharge the defendant on his own recognizance. This the judge does with an admonitory lecture, and the defendant and the complainant go away together. "O.C.," the juror, begins to conclude that the assistant is a pretty fair sort of a chap.

Trial follows trial with great rapidity. Gradually the crowd in the court-room thins out. By one o'clock only a dozen or fifteen witnesses and spectators remain, and by half-past three the benches are practically empty. "O.C." has heard a dozen different complaining witnesses tell the story of how as many defendants have wronged them. The Bowery merchant whose packing-cases have been broken into has followed as complainant the man who has been robbed in a saloon; the "clothes-line fight" has given place to the story of the actual abduction of a young girl by a "cadet"; the landlady who has received a bad cheque from a lodger can hardly wait to recount the history of her misfortunes, for the man who has lost a horse and wagon through a drunken driver, whom he charges with grand larceny.

Generally the "People's case" consists of the complainant's version of what has occurred, somewhat corroborated by another witness or two, and the officer who made the arrest. Then the lawyer for the defendant takes his client by the shoulder and with a gruff "Go 'round there, young man," or, if he be playing for sympathy, a gentle "Please take the stand, William," starts him upon that most dangerous of all adventures, a journey to the witness-chair in his own behalf. In two cases out of three the defendant's own testimony, if he is guilty, is what convicts him. Both sides "sum" up in short, disconnected speeches, and the judge delivers a brief charge. The jury file out and another is immediately sworn. As the next trial begins very likely the door from the "pen" will open and the proceedings be interrupted long enough to allow another prisoner to tramp around the court-room, take his stand at the bar, and plead guilty.