Everybody in the court was watching with interest now, attracted by the loud words. The scene might perhaps have ended in a fist fight, if the door at the side of the court room had not just then opened. An attendant stepped through, announced in a brittle voice. “His Honor, the Judge. All rise!”
Fenton turned away from Runkle choking down his rage. The little criminal lawyer, unruffled by the other’s burst of irascibility, smiled thinly as he faced the bench, while everybody in the court room stood in deference to the majesty of the law represented here by the black-robed judge who entered behind the attendant and seated himself in the tall chair behind the bench.
Judge Rothmere was one of the oldest of the justices of the court in point of service. He was also the sternest. Criminals and their lawyers tried to avoid him by every possible means, going to extremes to get their cases postponed to times when he was not presiding; for every criminal knew that if he was convicted in Judge Rothmere’s court, he would be sentenced to the maximum prescribed by law.
THE judge glanced over the court room while the clerk intoned the usual formula for opening the session. His eyes, under the bushy eyebrows, took cognizance of the strained attitudes of Runkle and Fenton.
Runkle was by far the cooler of the two; he owed his great success as a criminal lawyer to the fact that he never lost his head in the court room. Now, as the judge leaned forward over the bench, he stepped up, speaking in a self-contained, calm manner of injured righteousness.
“If Your Honor please, the district attorney just finished some very disparaging remarks about me before you entered the court room. I am here to argue a motion on a writ of habeas corpus for one, John Doe, charged with murder in the first degree: The district attorney has scheduled this motion for eleven o’clock, and has absolutely refused my request to have it called earlier. It is highly important that I leave shortly, as I have a pressing engagement, and I appeal to Your Honor not to permit Mr. Fenton to run this court, but to have the defendant, John Doe, brought here now.”
Judge Rothmere, who ordinarily made no concessions to defendants’ lawyers, seemed to feel that Runkle deserved special consideration. He turned to Fenton, asked, “What is your objection, Mr. Fenton, to accommodating Mr. Runkle?”
Fenton spluttered. “If the Court please, I don’t think Runkle is entitled to any consideration. This writ is entirely uncalled-for. In the ordinary course of events, the defendant would have been indicted some time this week and duly brought to trial. Runkle has taken this action merely to get this killer of his out of the hands of the police before he can be made to talk. It’s a shame that any attorney could be got to handle this case, and I intend to question Mr. Runkle as to who retained him!”
The judge nodded, turned to Runkle. He was listening to both sides impartially.
Runkle did not lose his patience. He said, “I am perfectly willing to explain how I was retained. Early this morning, about three A. M., I was awakened by the ringing of the telephone beside my bed. A muffled voice told me that if I went down to my front door I would find ten thousand dollars, and that it was the fee paid to me in advance for defending this man. I was warned that if I did not take the case I would regret it. Then my unknown caller hung up.
“The money was there in front of my door, tied in a neat parcel. I immediately called police headquarters, and the call was traced to a drug store pay station. The bills in the package of ten thousand dollars were checked carefully and found not to correspond to any that were known to have been stolen from the bazaar. Under the circumstances, Your Honor, I felt entirely justified in taking the case, and I at once proceeded to obtain a writ of habeas corpus. It is what any other attorney would do under the circumstances. I co-operated fully with the police, and there should be no fault to find with my actions.”
Runkle stopped, drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his lips. He took a deep breath and went on. “I once more ask Your Honor to exercise the discretion of the court, and have this defendant produced now instead of at eleven o’clock.”
Judge Rothmere had listened closely to Runkle’s explanation. Now he addressed Fenton sternly. “I see nothing wrong in Mr. Runkle’s conduct, Mr. District Attorney. The defendant is entitled to the services of counsel, and Mr. Runkle is doing the best he can for his client. I will grant the request of defendant’s attorney.” He raised his voice; “Bailiff! Bring in the defendant, John Doe. Number—” he glanced down at his copy of the calendar “—Number twenty-seven.”
When the bailiff left to obey the order, the judge bent his imposing, bushy eyebrows and looked at the district attorney. “Perhaps this will be a lesson to you, Mr. Fenton, not to attempt, in the future, to assume the prerogatives of the Court. As a matter of fact, for certain other reasons that have been brought to my attention, I had intended having this defendant brought up earlier, even if Mr. Runkle had not requested it.”
Fenton gnawed his lower lip, glaring at Runkle, who grinned at him.
There was a stir in the courtroom as the bailiff and two armed guards led in the robot-like killer who was down on the police blotter as John Doe. No trace of emotion or interest showed on his smooth face. Though he had not shaved, his cheeks were still smooth. No beard had grown there. Only his eyes showed a sign of human intelligence. They darted about the courtroom, glittering with expectancy — as if he sought some one he knew should be there. He walked less stiffly now, for he had been divested of his ingeniously contrived bullet-proof under-clothing.
HE was led up to the bar, and the clerk rose, began to intone the usual questions. “Prisoner, what is your name?”
The prisoner remained stolid, did not speak.
The judge leaned forward a little, inspecting him closely, while Runkle stepped to his side, whispered in his ear so that everybody could hear. “I’m your lawyer. It’s all right. You can answer the questions.”
Still the prisoner said nothing. He stood there like an automaton, or, perhaps, a man in a trance.
Finally the bailiff ventured to say, “If it please Your Honor, that’s the way he’s been since he was arrested. He was grilled all night but he wouldn’t open his mouth. They had to book him as John Doe!”
“All right,” the judge snapped. “Enter his name as John Doe. We will leave the other questions till later. Perhaps we can make him realize that he’s in real trouble.” He turned to Runkle. “Now, sir, what is the purpose of this motion?”
Runkle wiped his lips with his handkerchief — it seemed to be a habit with him whenever he talked — and began a long argument to the effect that his client should be discharged because of lack of evidence. He finished by making the formal request, “I move that this defendant be discharged because there is no evidence that a crime has been committed in this jurisdiction.”
It was a motion that is always made as a matter of routine, but never granted. Judge Rothmere, however, seemed to weigh Runkle’s argument seriously. He turned to Fenton, asked, “Have the defendant’s prints been taken? What is his criminal record?”
The district attorney answered reluctantly, “There is no record at all for him, judge. His fingerprints do not fall into any category on file.”