I gave him the order, he spoke to the two officers for a minute, and then asked the judge for a continuance of twenty-four hours. This was granted, and I was led back to the bedbugs in the dark cell.
The next day, when my case was called, the lawyer stood up and started talking.
“Sit down!” roared the judge.
He obeyed.
A woman wearing a thick veil was called. I could not distinguish her features. In a few words she told of shooting a man at her window. She saw but one man, the one she shot. She was excused and hastily left the courtroom.
My landlord was called, and testified that I was the roommate of the dead burglar; that I was not in the room the night he was killed, and when I appeared the following night I had on a different, a new suit.
The officers testified that they arrested me in the room and that I had refused to make any statement. The prosecutor stood up.
“Officer, when you accused this defendant of being an accomplice of the dead man, did he deny it?”
“No, sir, he did not.”
The prosecutor looked wise, and sat down with a satisfied air—as if I had been found guilty.