The Day of Judgment

by Joseph Hocking

Presently the news came to him that his re-trial was to come on, and one morning he was taken from his cell, as in the first instance, accompanied by two policemen, who led him into the prisoner's dock.

His experiences had left their mark upon him. He was still scrupulously precise about his dress, and every detail of his person was attended to as carefully as if he had arranged to make a set speech in the House of Commons. But no one could help remarking on the change which had passed over him. He looked thin and haggard; in his eyes was an expression of weariness; his skin was grey and almost parchment-like; and, instead of seeming to be without nerves, as on the previous occasions, his hands trembled as they rested upon the rail in front of him. But no one could suggest that he asked for pity. There was still the same proud look upon his face, the same expression of defiance. He stood perfectly straight and upright, too, and seemed to regard both judge and jury with a feeling of contempt. In addition to all this there was something in his square jaw and set teeth which denoted a grim determination. Here was not a man who was going to deliver himself over to the butcher without a protest. Everyone felt that he would fight, and fight to the very last.

Although he had been told that it would be so, he did not realise until that moment that the trial would have to commence de novo. He looked at the judge with keen interest, and noted the difference between him and the one who had last sat there. He could not help remembering, too, what had taken place. The things he had heard had shaken his life to its very foundation; he who had regarded himself as fatherless had found his father, and this fact had altered everything. Perhaps, too, Judge Branscombe, who from his elevation looked at Paul, felt this. In any case, it was evident he had a keen interest in him. He noted his every movement, marked his every feature, and formed his impressions concerning the man who was there for trial.

Judge Branscombe was utterly different from his predecessor. As we have said, Judge Bolitho was florid, somewhat heavy featured, in spite of the fact that his face was cast in a classical mould. He was fresh coloured, too, and suggested a bon vivant. Judge Branscombe, on the other hand, was a little man, with small, watchful eyes and sharp-pointed features. He was a lawyer to his very finger-tips, keen, penetrating, and a master of detail. He was a judge who did not deal with broad issues. He dealt with facts, hard, incontrovertible facts, rather than what might lie beyond them. What might be called "internal evidence" had little weight with him. What any prisoner might be likely to do under a given set of circumstances had little or no weight with him. It was what the prisoner had been known to do that he fastened upon and held to with the tenacity of a terrier. Not a cruel man by any means, but in a sense a little man; a man of keen intellect but of narrow outlook; a man who followed out a certain set of circumstances to their logical issue regardless of all other probabilities which might appear. Such was the judge who sat to hear Paul's case that day. Such was the man who in time would have to advise the jury concerning their verdict.

Paul was not long in summing up the nature of Judge Branscombe, and he felt sure that under his guidance the trial would more than ever rest upon circumstantial evidence. This man was not a reader of character, not one who studied probabilities, therefore he felt his battle would be hard to fight.

The court was again crowded to its utmost capacity, and the excitement which had prevailed at the first trial had not lessened in the slightest degree. Everyone there knew of what had taken place and realised the reason for the change of judges. All sorts of rumours had been afloat concerning what had become of Judge Bolitho, what had been said in high places, and what the result would be in his future career. The whole affair had been the talk of the country. People had come from afar to witness the outcome of this strange case, and, as on the previous occasion, the atmosphere was tense with excitement and keen with expectation.

Again the clerk of the assizes rose and read the indictment, and again the judge turned to Paul and asked him whether he were guilty or not guilty.

"Not guilty, my lord," he replied.

Everyone noted that there was a tone of defiance in his voice which they had missed on the first occasion. He found himself examining the jurymen. As far as he could judge, they were of the same calibre—unimaginative, commonplace, and, to a large extent, self-satisfied men. He thought, however, that they looked toward him with an expression of sympathy which he had not noted before. Perhaps they, too, had been influenced by the happenings of the previous trial.

Then Mr. Bakewell rose and said, "I am for the prosecution, my lord."