The prisoner — the seedy-looking man — was about forty years of age, and his clothing seemed nearly as old, so worn and dirty was it. His face, shaven that morning in the Tombs, had the hollow and haggard appearance that is the result of continued misery and misfortune, and his gray eyes were filled with the heroic indifference of a man who knows he is doomed and cares very little about the matter.
He gave his pedigree to the clerk in a low, even voice: William Mount, no address, age thirty-eight, American born, occupation bookkeeper.
Judge Fraser Manton, who had been gazing with keen interest at the prisoner during the questioning, now cleared his throat.
“William Mount,” he said, “you have been charged before the grand jury with the murder of your wife, Mrs. Elaine Mount, known as Alice Reeves. Do you wish the indictment read?”
The prisoner looked up at the judge and the eyes of the two men met.
“No, sir; I don’t want to hear the indictment,” Mount replied.
“Very well. You are brought before me to enter a plea. You understand, this is not a trial, and you are not expected to say anything except a plea to the indictment. Are you guilty of the crime charged?”
A little light appeared in the prisoner’s eyes, but speedily died out as he replied simply:
“I didn’t do it, sir.”
“Then you plead not guilty?”
“Yes, sir.”
The judge turned to the clerk to instruct him to enter the plea, then his eyes went back to the prisoner.
“Are you represented by counsel? Have you a lawyer?”
The shadow of a scornful and bitter smile swept across Mount’s lips.
“No, sir,” he replied.
“Do you want one?”
“What if I did? I couldn’t pay a lawyer. I haven’t any money.”
“I suppose not. Just so.” The judge appeared to be examining the prisoner with attentive curiosity. “It’s my duty, Mount, in the case that a man charged with a capital crime is unable to retain counsel, to assign an attorney to his defense. The attorney will be paid by the State, also all legitimate and necessary expenses incurred by him up to a certain amount. The State takes this precaution to safeguard the lives and liberties of its children. I will assign counsel to your case this afternoon, and he will probably see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the prisoner without a show of interest. It was evident that he expected little assistance from any lawyer.
Judge Manton beckoned to the clerk, who handed him a file to which two or three sheets of paper were attached. The judge looked over them thoughtfully, then turned to the assistant district attorney.
“I’ll set this case for May eighteenth, Mr. Thornton. Will that be all right?”
“Perfectly, your honor,” replied the prosecutor.
“Well. Mount, you will be tried on Tuesday, the eighteenth day of May. Your counsel will be notified to that effect. That’s all.”
As the prisoner was led from the courtroom his face wore exactly the same expression of resigned hopelessness that it had shown when he entered twenty minutes before.
Late that afternoon, in his chambers adjoining the courtroom, Judge Fraser Manton was enjoying a cigar and a chat with his friends, Hamilton Rogers, proprietor and editor of the Bulletin, and Richard Hammel, police commissioner, when his clerk approached with some letters and other documents to be signed.
“By the way,” observed the clerk as he blotted the signatures, “there will be another, sir. Who are you going to give the Mount case to? He must be notified.”
“Oh, yes,” replied the judge. “Why, I don’t know; let me see. I looked the list over this afternoon, and I thought of assigning it to Simon Leg.” He hesitated. “Yes, give it to Leg. L, E, G, Leg; you’ll find his address in the book.”
“What!” exclaimed Police Commissioner Hammel; “old Simmie Leg?”
The clerk had stopped short on his way out of the room, while an expression of surprise and amusement filled his eyes.
“Yes, sir,” he said finally as he turned to go. A minute later the click of his typewriter was heard through the open door.
Chapter II
The Attorney for the Defense
In a nicely furnished office, consisting of two rooms, on the eighteenth floor of one of New York’s highest buildings, situated on Broadway not far south of City Hall, a stenographer was talking to an office boy at nine o’clock in the morning. (Heavens! How many stenographers are there talking to office boys at nine o’clock in the morning?) This particular stenographer was, perhaps, a little prettier than the average, but otherwise she held strictly to type; whereas the office boy appeared to be really individual.
There was a light in his eyes and a form to his brow that spoke of intelligence, and he was genuinely, not superficially, neat in appearance. He was about twenty years of age, and his name was Dan Culp. As soon as the morning conversation with his coworker was finished, he took a heavy law volume down from a shelf and began reading in it.
The door opened and a man entered the office.
The office boy and the stenographer spoke together:
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Mr. Leg.”
The newcomer returned their greetings and hung his hat and spring overcoat in a closet. He was a middle-aged man of heavy build, with an elongated, sober-looking countenance, which formed an odd contrast with his pleasant, twinkling eyes.
“Any mail, Miss Venner?” he asked, turning.
“Yes, sir.”
He took the two letters which the stenographer handed him and passed into the other room. The office boy returned to his law volume. Miss Venner took a piece of embroidery from a drawer of her desk and started to work on it. From within came various small sounds as their employer opened his desk, pulled his chair back, and tore open his mail. Silence followed.
Presently his voice came:
“Dan!”
The office boy stuck a blotter in his book and went to the door of the other room.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come here.” Mr. Leg had wheeled himself about in his swivel chair and was gazing with an expression of puzzled astonishment at a typewritten letter in his hand. “Just come here, Dan, and look at this! Of all the — but just look at it!”
The youth’s face took on a sudden expression of eager interest as he read the letter through to the end.
“It’s a murder case, sir,” he said with animation.
“So I see. But why, in Heaven’s name, has it been assigned to me? Why should any case be assigned to me?”
The youth smiled. “It is surprising, sir.”
“Surprising! It’s outrageous! There’s no reason for it! A murderer! Why, I wouldn’t know how to talk to the fellow. They know very well I haven’t had a case for ten years. Dan, it’s an outrage!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I won’t take it.”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Leg got up from his chair with a gesture of indignation and walked to the window. Dan stood regarding him hesitatingly, with eagerness in his eyes, and’ finally inquired diffidently:
“Would that be ethical, Mr. Leg?”
The lawyer wheeled with a sharp: “What?”
“To refuse the case, sir.”