The court wanted to know how the defendant would plead. Somebody, without bothering to rise, said, "Not guilty, Your Honor," from the defense table.
There was a brief scraping of chairs; four of five men from the defense and the prosecution tables got up and advanced to confer in front of the bench, comparing sheets of paper. The man who had read the charges, obviously the chief prosecutor, made himself the spokesman.
"Your Honor, defense and prosecution wish to enter the following stipulations: That the decedent was a practicing politician within the meaning of the Constitution, that he met his death in the manner stated in the coroner's report, and that he was killed by the defendant, Wilbur Whately."
"Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Vincent?" the judge wanted to know.
The defense answered affirmatively. I sat back, gaping like a fool. Why, that was practically—no, it was—a confession.
"All right, gentlemen," the judge said. "Now we have all that out of the way, let's get on with the case."
As though there were any case to get on with! I fully expected them to take it on from there in song, words by Gilbert and music by Sullivan.
"Well, Your Honor, we have a number of character witnesses," the prosecution—prosecution, for God's sake!—announced.
"Skip them," the defense said. "We stipulate."
"But you can't stipulate character testimony," the prosecution argued. "You don't know what our witnesses are going to testify to."