So loud and so furious was the discussion that followed the extraordinary deductions of Juror No. 9, that the bailiff had to rap half a dozen times before he could make himself heard. Finally the foreman, purple in the face, called out through the haze of smoke:
"Come in!"
"The judge says for you to come into the court room for instructions," announced the officer. "Never mind your hats and coats. No cigars, gents. Leave 'em here. They'll be safe. Come on, now. It's nearly time to go to supper."
The judge informed the jury that they could not find the man guilty of bigamy and curtly ordered them back to their room for further deliberation. They took another ballot before going out to supper at a nearby restaurant, guarded by six bailiffs, who warned them not to discuss the case while outside the jury room. The second ballot, by the way, was eight for conviction, four for acquittal. Juror No. 5 had come over to the minority. He said there was something in the theory of Juror No. 9.
There was a very positive disagreement concerning the meal they were about to partake of. The foreman spoke of it as dinner and was openly sneered at by eleven gentlemen who had never called it anything but supper. The little clockmaker, having been overruled by the judge, was in a nasty temper. He accused the foreman of being a republican. He said no democrat ever called it dinner. It wasn't democratic.
Upon their return to the jury room after a meal on which there was complete agreement and which brought out considerable talk about the penuriousness of the County of New York, they settled down to a prolonged and profound discussion of their differences. It soon developed that all but two of the jurors had been favorably inclined toward the defendant up to the time the State introduced the unexpected wives. They had regarded him as a poor unfortunate, driven to crime by adversity, and after a fashion the victim of an arrogant and soulless police system, aided and abetted by the District Attorney's minions, a contemptible robber in the person of a dealer in women's hats, and a bejeweled snob who insulted their intelligence by trying to convince them that her confidence had been misplaced. But the two wives settled it. Smilk was a rascal. He ought to be hung.
"But," argued No. 9, "how the devil do we know that them women ARE his wives. Their evidence ain't supported, is it?"
"Didn't they have certificates?" demanded another hotly.
"Sure. But that don't prove that he was the man, does it?"
"And didn't the prisoner jump up and yell: 'My God, it's all off! You've got me cold! You've got me dead to rights,'" cried another.