WITHDRAWING COMPLAINTS.
In some instances the complainant wished to withdraw the charge, for the reason that he had already lost time in making the prosecution, and did not wish to lose more. Sometimes, in cases of robbery, the friends of the accused had offered to restore the stolen property on condition that there should be no prosecution, and very naturally the complainant was willing to make such a compromise. But it was out of his power to do so after having once made his complaint before the magistrate, and his appeal to the grand jury was generally of no avail. The well-being of society, in cases of professional thieves and the like, was held to be paramount to the desires of complainants, and if the testimony was clear there was no delay in ordering indictments. In one instance a man who had been robbed, in a house whose character was not at all doubtful, asked to withdraw the complaint because he had already lost too much time in following it. He did not think the accused was either young or penitent, but he could not afford the time he was devoting to the case. He had evidently been instructed what to do, as his testimony before the grand jury was quite different from that in his complaint sworn to before the magistrate. In his complaint he said he knew that the prisoner took the money, but when in our presence he was uncertain on the subject. He didn’t know, couldn’t tell, didn’t remember, was excited at the time, and so on, until we found that he was determined to say and know nothing. As there were no other witnesses, we were forced to dismiss the charge, though morally convinced of the guilt of the accused. The complainant had determined to have the case abandoned, and as the prejudices of the nineteenth century are opposed to the use of the rack and thumb-screws in the grand jury room, we had no means of compelling the witness to adhere to his original story. Mind you, he had not varied it so as to make him liable to the charge of perjury, in one case or the other; he had only substituted uncertainty for certainty.
Another instance of the withdrawal of a complaint through motives of kindness, was in the case of a woman who had lost a few articles from her room while her door was left open. The thieves were some young boys, whose parents were respectable; and as soon as the theft was traced to the culprits, the property was at once returned. “I don’t want to make felons of them,” said the woman; “I think they took the things out of a spirit of mischief, and that they will be good boys in future. The mother of one of them has talked to me about it, and I have promised to withdraw the charge.” Her appeal was earnest, and before its close it was eloquent. When she left the room it was voted to dismiss the case. The foreman then sent for her, told her that she had displayed much kindness of heart; that the jury appreciated her motives, and had complied with her request. Her thanks, like those of the woman mentioned heretofore, were given through tears, and she rushed outside to congratulate the anxious mother of the boy whom she had released.
CURIOUS PHASES OF HUMAN NATURE.
Many phases of human nature can be studied in the grand jury room. The hatred which the natives of green Erin bear towards our citizens of African descent is frequently seen where the accused is of negro blood, and the witness is of the race that boasts the Blarney Stone, and grows indignant at mention of Boyne water. Given such a case, and the chances are more than even that the witness will tell a story in which indictment is the primary, and truth the secondary consideration. If you have two or more witnesses of the loquacious nationality, and take the pains to question them closely, you will be likely to find a conspicuous inharmony in their testimony. They seem to consider themselves called to “swear agin’ the nagur,” and they generally do it. And it is possible that, with the case reversed,—an accused Celt and a testifying Ethiopian,—the evidence might be equally energetic. But, for some reason, we did not have a fair opportunity to settle this momentous question, and I must therefore leave it for the consideration of some grand jury of the future.
THE DETECTIVE’S STORY.
The detective officer shines brilliantly before the grand jury. There was, now and then, a man of this profession who was quiet and unpretending, but he formed an exception to the rule. The detective had generally done wonderful things in the discovery of crimes already committed, or in the prevention of crimes contemplated or progressing. Some detectives told their stories with admirable directness, while others were evidently desirous of giving condensed histories of their professional careers. “Did you arrest John Jones?” asks the foreman when a detective is called in. “Yes, sir,” is the reply. “Why did you arrest him?” “Because I heard he had robbed Brown’s store.” “Did you find anything in his possession?” “Yes, sir.” “What did you find?” “The articles named in the complaint.” “That will do, officer; you can go;” and the officer bows, and departs.
This is all that the jury wants to know from the officer in regard to the performance of John Jones, who is charged, on complaint of Brown, with burglary in the first degree. But the probabilities are two to one that when the foreman asks, “Did you arrest John Jones?” the officer will say, “I was walking along Broadway, and saw Brown, who looked as if he had been robbed. I went to his store, and saw the mark of a chisel near the lock, and asked Brown if he had lost anything. Brown told me he had, but did not know who had robbed him. I looked at the chisel-mark, and thought it was Jones’s work. Then I went down Canal Street, and saw Jones standing talking with two men, one of whom I remembered seeing seven years ago at the California State Prison, when I took the great stage-robber Smith up there for robbing the Petaluma mail, and frightening a lady passenger so that she died next week, and left two girls, three boys, and one husband, who felt so bad about it that he got married before the month was out. Jones looked so innocent that I knew he was guilty; and so I followed him all the afternoon, and arrested him when I saw him go into a house on the Bowery. I searched the house, and found Brown’s goods concealed where it was not likely anybody could find them; and there was a lot of other goods that I recognized as coming from a store on Broadway, that was robbed six weeks before.” And so he goes on, in a way calculated to impress his hearers with the belief that he is a man of genius, and perfectly at home among thieves. He knows all the movements of the gentry that one does not like to be intimate with, and when he finishes his narrative, you contemplate him (to use the language of a certain celebrated orator about another) as the East Indian contemplates his favorite idol: you know that he is ugly, but you feel that he is great. The story of a detective will frequently convey the idea that the movements and actions of professional thieves can be studied, like those of the robin or the beaver; and I have sometimes thought that the burglar and pickpocket should occupy places in natural history along with the birds, beasts, and reptiles that inhabit the earth and make things lively. One officer, who was a witness in several cases, was a favorite with the jury, for the reason that he always gave his testimony in the clearest and most direct manner. I doubt if he used a dozen superfluous words in any instance, and I could almost say that he did not use a dozen of them all together. His statements were short, sharp, and decisive; and it is my impression that he is far more efficient in the service than some of his professional brethren who would occupy fifteen minutes in telling a story that he could give in sixty seconds, and have time to spare.
PECULIARITIES OF WITNESSES.
THE BRICK AND BROOMSTICK.