The Light that Lies

by George Barr McCutcheon

He was never to forget the morning of the twentieth.

Fifteen or twenty uneasy, sour-faced men, of all ages, sizes and condition sat outside the railing, trying to look unconcerned. They couldn't fool him. He knew what they were and he knew that in the soul of each lurked the selfish, cruel prayer that twelve men would be snatched from among them and stuffed into the jury box to stay before the clerk could draw his own dreaded name from the little box at his elbow.

Other men came in and shuffled into chairs. The deputy clerk of the court emerged from somewhere and began fussing with the papers on his desk. Every man there envied him. He had a nice job, and he looked as though he rather liked being connected with an inhuman enterprise. He was immune. He was like the man who already has had smallpox. Lazy court attendants in well-worn uniforms ambled about freely. They too were envied. They were thoroughly court-broken. A couple of blithe, alert looking young men from the district attorney's office came and, with their hands in their pockets, stared blandly at the waiting group, very much as the judges at a live-stock show stare at the prize pigs, sheep and cattle. They seemed to be appraising the supply on hand and, to judge by their manner, they were not at all favourably impressed with the material. Indeed, they looked unmistakably annoyed. It was bad enough to have to select a jury in any event, but to have to select one from this collection of ignoramuses was—well, it was too much!

The hour hand on the clock said ten o'clock, but everybody was watching the minute hand. It had to touch twelve before anything, could happen. Then the judge would steal out of his lair and mount the bench, while every one stood and listened to the unintelligible barking of the attendant who began with something that sounded suspiciously like “Oy-yoy!” notwithstanding the fact that he was an Irish and not a Jewish comedian.

Two uninteresting, anxious-eyed, middle-aged men, who looked a trifle scared and uncertain as to their right to be there, appeared suddenly inside the railing, and no one doubted for an instant that they were the defendant's lawyers. Sampson always had wondered why the men from the district attorney's office were so confident, so cocky, and so spruce looking while their opponents invariably appeared to be a seedy, harassed lot, somewhat furtive in their movements and usually labouring under the strain of an inward shyness that caused a greasy polish of perspiration to spread over their countenances.

Sampson was to find that these timid, incompetent looking individuals had every reason in the world to be perspiring even so early in the proceedings. They turned out to be what is known in rhetorical circles as “fire-eaters” The judge took his seat and the clerk at once called the case of the State vs. James W. Hildebrand. Sampson speculated. What had Hildebrand done to get himself into a mess of this sort? Was it grand or petit larceny, or was it house-breaking, entering, safe-cracking, or—Two burly attendants came up the side aisle and between them walked a gaunt, grey, stooped old man, his smooth shaven face blanched by weeks of sunless existence.

Sampson had expected to see a sullen-faced, slouching young fellow, shaved and brushed and combed into an unnatural state of comeliness for the purpose of hoodwinking the jury into the belief that his life was as clean as his cheek. He could not deny himself a stare of incredulity on beholding this well-dressed, even ascetic looking man who strode haltingly, almost timidly through the little gate and sank into the chair designated by his counsel. Once seated, he barely glanced at his lawyers, and then allowed his eyes to fall as if shame was the drawing power. Somehow, in that instant, Sampson experienced the sudden conviction that this man James W. Hildebrand was no ordinary person, for it was borne in upon him that he despised the men who were employed to defend him. It was as if he were more ashamed of being seen with them than he was of being haled into a court of justice charged with crime.

The assistant district attorney in charge of the case addressed the waiting talesmen, briefly outlining the case against the defendant, and for the first time in his experience Sampson listened with a show of interest.

James W. Hildebrand was charged with embezzlement. Judging by the efforts of his counsel to have the case set over for at least ten days and the Court's refusal to grant a delay, together with certain significant observations as to the time that would probably be required to produce and present the evidence—a week or more—Sampson realised that this was a case of considerable magnitude. He racked his brain in the futile effort to recall any mention of it in the newspapers. It was his practice to read every line of the criminal news printed, for this was the only means he had of justifying the declaration that he had formed an opinion. Nothing escaped him—or at least he thought so—and yet here was a case, evidently important, that had slipped through without having made the slightest impression on him. It was most disturbing. This should not have happened.

His heart sank as he thought of the California reservations uptown. He was expected to take up the transportation and Pullman that very afternoon.