I like Montana, too, and I believe the Montana people are big enough and broad enough not to have prejudice against a man because he comes from another State. Every State in this Union is represented in Montana, and the people who left the old settled States and came out to the new Territories, dropped their prejudices on the way—and sometimes I have thought that that is what killed the grass. I like a good, brave, free, candid, chivalric people. I don't care where you come from—I don't care where you were born. We are all men, and we all have our rights; and as long as the old flag floats over me, I have just as many rights in Montana as I have in New York. And when you come to New York I will see that you have as many rights, if you are in my neighborhood, as you have in Montana. That is the kind of nationality I believe in. I hate this little, provincial prejudice; and yet Senator Sanders invoked that prejudice. That insults you. We did not insult you when we asked you when you went on the jury, if you cared whether the money stayed in Butte or not, or whether you were interested or not, or related or not. Those were the questions asked every juror, and we relied absolutely on your answers when you said that you were unprejudiced, and that you would give us a fair trial; and we believe you will.
Now, then, with regard to these experts, you have got to judge each one by his testimony; and it is foolish it seems to me, to call them vipers and pirates, as Senator Sanders did. A very strong expression—"vipers, pirates" living off, he said, the substance of others; and yet he had an expert on the stand, Mr. Dickinson; he had another, Mr. Elwell; he had another, Mr. Hodges; and after that he rises up before this jury and calls them "three vipers" and "three pirates." I never will do that, If I ask a man to swear for me, and he does the best he can, I will leave the "pirate" out.
I will drop the "viper," and I will stand by him, if I think he is telling the truth; and if he is not I won't say much about him; I don't want to hurt his feelings. But I want to call your attention again to the fact that every expert on our side swore, knowing that they had three experts on the other side, and that if we made a mistake they could catch us in it; and we did make a mistake in that ink; and the test showed that we made a mistake, and that is all the test did show; but it did not show that the will is genuine any more than if it had turned out to be carbon ink; then both sides would have been mistaken. And yet after all it did turn out to be modern logwood ink, and it did turn out not to be Reimal's logwood ink, made of the chromate of potassium; did turn out not to be that, and I say on this will that there is an absolute, decided and distinct difference between the color on the name Job Davis and the name James Davis. And right here, I might as well say that that man Jackson, who came here from Butler, Mo.—and when I said Butler was a pretty tough place, rose up in his wrath and said it was as good as New York any day—that man says that when he saw the will he does not remember of seeing the names of James Davis and Sconce in it, but he did remember of seeing the name of Job Davis. I don't think he saw any of it. Now, there is another question here—because I have said enough about ink, at least enough to give you an inkling of my views.
There is another question. Why didn't John A. Davis take the stand? That is a serious question. John A. Davis had sworn, on the 13th of March, 1890, that his brother died without a will. John A. Davis, on the 24th day of July, 1890, filed a will in which he was the legatee. That will came into his possession under suspicious circumstances. What would a perfectly frank and candid man have done? What would you have done? You would not have allowed yourself to remain under suspicion one moment. You would have said, "I got that will so and so." You would have let in the light, "I obtained it in such a place, it is an honest, genuine will, and here it is, and here are the witnesses to that will." But instead of that, John A. Davis never opened his mouth, except to file a petition swearing that it came into his possession on the first day of July. He knew that he was suspected, didn't he? He knew that the men in whose veins his blood flowed believed that the will was a forgery—knew that good men and women believed that he was a robber, and that he was endeavoring to steal their portion. He knew that, and any man that loves his own reputation and any man that ever felt the glow of honor in his heart one moment, would not have been willing to rest under such a suspicion or under such an imputation. He would have said: "Here is its history, here is where I got it, it is not a forged will. It is genuine. Here are the witnesses that know all about it. Here is how I came into possession of it."
No, sir. Not a word. Speechless—tongueless. And he comes into this court and comes on to this stand to be a witness, and is asked about a conversation he had with Burchett, and then we asked him, "How did you come into the possession of that will?" All his lawyers leaped between him and the answer to that question. They objected. If he came by that will honestly he would have said, "I am going to tell the whole story." He wants you to believe that he came by it honestly, doesn't he? He wants you to believe it. He not only wants you to believe it, gentlemen, but he asks twelve men—you—to swear that he came by it honestly, doesn't he? If you give your verdict that that is a genuine will, then you give your oath that John A. Davis came by it honestly; and he wants you twelve men to swear it. And yet he dare not swear it himself. He wants you to do his swearing. He is afraid to stand in your presence and tell the history of that will. He is afraid to tell the name of the man from whom he received it. He is afraid to tell how much he gave for it; afraid to tell how much he promised. He is afraid to tell how they obtained witnesses to substantiate it in the way they have. Well, now, ought not you to let him tell his own story, ought not you, gentlemen, to be clever enough to let him do his own swearing?
Now, I will ask you again if he came by that will honestly, fairly, above board, would he not be glad to tell you the story? Would he not be glad to make it plain to you? If that was a perfectly honest will and came to him through perfectly pure channels, would he not want you to know it? Would he not want every man and woman in this city to know it? Would he not want all his neighbors to know it? And yet, he is willing, when this case is being tried, and when he is on the stand, and asked how he got the will—he is willing to close his mouth—willing to admit that he is afraid to tell; and I tell you to-day, gentlemen, that the silence of John A. Davis is a confession of guilt, and he knows it, and his attorneys know it. A client afraid to swear that he did not forge a will, or have it forged, and then want to hire a man to defend him and call him honest! Well, he would have to hire him; he would not get anybody for nothing. And yet he is asking you to do it. If John A. Davis came properly by it, let him say so under oath. Don't you swear to it for him, not one of you.
Now, there is another question. Why did not James R. Eddy take the stand? We charged him with forging the will. We made an affidavit setting forth that he did forge the will, and in this very court Mr. Dixon arose and said he was glad that the charge had been fixed, and the man had been designated. Judge Dixon said here, before this jury, when this case was opened, "the man who was charged with forging this will will be here. He will stand before this jury face to face; and he will explain his connections with the will to your satisfaction." That is what Judge Dixon said. Where is your witness? Where is James R. Eddy? Why did you not bring him forward? I know he is here now—delighted with the notoriety that this charge of forgery gives him—with a moral nature that is an abyss of shallowness,—delighted to be charged with it, and he will probably be my friend as long as he lives, because I have added to his notoriety by saying he is a forger. Why did they not bring him on the stand? Mr. Dixon gives one reason. Because the jury would not believe him. And that is the man who is first found in possession of this will. That is the man in whose hands it is, and it is from that man that John A. Davis received it. And the reason that he is not put on the stand is that it is the deliberate opinion of the learned counsel in this case that no jury would believe him.
How does that work with you? James R. Eddy here—his deposition here—and they could not read his deposition because he was here—and they had him here and kept him here, so that we could not read his deposition. They were bound that he should not go on the stand. Why? Because the moment he got there he could be asked, Where did you find the will? Who was present when you found it? When did you first tell anybody about it? When did you first show it to John A. Davis? How much did he agree to give you for it? What witnesses have you talked to in this case? What witnesses have you written to in this case? What work have you done in this case? What affidavits have you made in this case? And what have you done with the other three wills that you have in this case?
Such questions might be asked him, and they were afraid to put him on the stand. Every letter that he had written would have been identified by him if he had been put on the stand. Maybe he would have been compelled to write in the presence of the jury, to see whether he would spell words correctly.
They knew that the moment he went on the stand their case was as dead as Julius Cæsar. They knew it and kept him off.