The days pass swiftly as if on wings while waiting for the sentence. My trial-lawyer, J——, visits me one evening and informs me that somebody has told the judge that I had boasted that I would get off with a fine. A strenuous denial is made, but the futility of the protest is apparent. The purpose of these underhand tactics is to prevent the imposition of a fine which could be paid by friends.
Criminal libel is a misdemeanor, and the limit or maximum sentence is one year in the penitentiary or a fine of $500, or both.
The prosecuting lawyers hope, by the imposition of a prison sentence, to frighten me into accepting either a pardon or a commutation of the sentence, thus forcing me to accept their favors and preventing further investigation into certain proceedings.
A suggestion is made to enter a protest with my ambassador. Such a procedure would empower the judge to offer me the choice between going back to Europe or serving one year in the penitentiary. The Mexican government would prefer to get rid of my agitation in this country and does not relish the idea of assisting the publicity of a willing martyr.
My suspicion of these tactics is aroused when I learn of the case of a young cockney valet who stole from his employer, and who was offered the alternative, when the judge sentenced him, of going back to England or serving five years in Sing Sing. The young valet took great pains to inform me of his case and the advantage to be derived from accepting the lesser of two evils. I mused over the incident, and wondered if the valet's case was not a gentle hint emanating from the Machiavellian brains interested in my case. The trial lawyer, J——, suggested the advisability of appealing to the governor for clemency in case of loss of the appeal. A protest to the ambassador was also proposed. I declined both suggestions.
II
I have become acquainted with a prisoner a few doors from my cell, next to the shower baths. Small of stature, almost a boy, deathly pale, dark, with strong features, this young English pickpocket is a new type in my limited experience with criminals.
Every afternoon we sit together at a five o'clock tea in his model cell. The walls are covered with half-tone pictures of famous stage beauties. He offers me the place of honor, which is an old, rickety, but comfortable armchair which belonged to Harry Thaw.
The bed, the bench, everything, is decorated with paper, cut out with infinite pains. The tea is excellent and there are also condensed milk, Huntley & Palmer's biscuits, butter and orange marmalade. Mine host seldom talks to prisoners; he says the place is filled with stool pigeons. When asked if he does not suspect me, he smiles and remarks that in his profession a deep and varied familiarity with human nature is necessary, as well as a cool head, an impassive mask, and great dexterity with hands and fingers.