There were by this time quite seventy-five spectators present. Every one of them leaned forward on his chair, and craned his neck eagerly, to catch a good glimpse of the prisoner. In the distance, somewhere, resounded a harsh click (as of a key turned in a stiff lock), succeeded by a violent clang (as of an iron door opened and slammed to, in haste). Then, up the aisle leading from the rear of the court room, advanced the figure of a lady, dressed in black. She had to run the gauntlet of those seventy-five on-lookers, more than one of whom was bold enough to obtrude himself upon her path, and stare her squarely in the face. She had no veil.
But she marched bravely on, looking fixedly ahead, and at last reached the railing where she had to halt. She was terribly pale. Her features were hard and peaked. Her under-lip was pressed tight beneath her teeth. Her face might have been of marble. It contrasted sharply with the black hair above it, and the black gown underneath. Her eyes were empty of expression, like those of one who is blind. She appeared not to see her friends: at any rate, she gave them no sign of recognition. Yet they were only a few feet away, and almost exactly in front of her. She stood motionless, with both hands resting on the rail.
What must have been Arthur Ripley’s feelings at this moment, as he beheld his wife, standing within arm’s reach of him, a prisoner in a court of law, prey to a hundred devouring eyes, and recognized his utter helplessness to interfere and shield her!
“Judith Peixada, alias Ruth Ripley,” began the clerk, in the same mechanical, metallic voice, “you have been indicted for murder in the first degree upon the person of Edward Bolen, late of the first ward of the City of New York, deceased, and against the peace of the People of the State of New York, and their dignity. How say you, are you guilty or not guilty of the felony as stated?”
The prisoner’s hands clutched tightly at the railing. She drew a deep breath. Her pale lips parted. So low that only those within a radius of a yard or two could hear, she said, “I am guilty.”
The clerk assumed that he had misunderstood. “Come, speak up louder,” he said, roughly. “How do you plead?”
A spasm contracted the prisoner’s features, She bit her lip. Her hands shook violently. She repeated, “I plead guilty.”
The clerk’s face betrayed a small measure of surprise. Speedily controlling it, however, he began to recite the formula, for such case, made and provided: “You answer that you are guilty of the felony as charged in the indictment, and so your plea shall stand record—”
“One moment, Mr. Clerk,” the judge at this point interrupted.
Mr. Flint and Hetzel were looking into each other’s faces with blank consternation. Arthur’s head had dropped forward upon his breast. Mrs. Hart sprang to her feet, ran toward the prisoner, grasped her arm, and cried out, “Oh, it is not true. You don’t know what you have said, Ruth. It is not true—she is not guilty, sir,” directing the last words at the clerk. The on-lookers shifted in their seats and conversed together. The court-officers hammered with their gavels and commanded, “Order—silence.” Mr. Romer stood up, and tried to catch the judge’s eye.