Our laws are very smug and sometimes hypocritical. Theoretically, if a man is on trial for a crime, you can’t prejudice the jury against him by showing that he has ever been convicted of another crime. The theory of the law, set forth in self-righteous complacency, is that a man can only be tried for the one crime he is accused of committing.”
“That’s fair,” she said.
“Very fair, if it worked that way. The trouble is, it doesn’t.”
“Why?”
“If you don’t deny the charges against you, the prosecution can’t show that you’ve ever been convicted of another crime. But if you take the witness stand and become a witness, the law says that your testimony may be impeached by showing that you have been convicted of a crime.”
“Why is that?”
“That’s because from time immemorial it has been permissible to impeach a witness in a civil case by showing he’s been convicted of a felony. And when they apply the same rules of evidence to criminal cases, the man with a criminal record doesn’t dare to take the stand.
“Wait a minute,” I said, as she started to say something, “don’t get me wrong. The law, in its smug complacency, says, 'Oh, we’ll fix that all right’, and throws a statute on the books saying that if a man accused of crime doesn’t take the stand and testify in his own behalf that isn’t to be considered against him; the jury aren’t even allowed to think about it, much less comment on it.”
“But can jurors do that?” she asked.
“Only the judges think so.”
“You mean, if you don’t take the stand...”
“If you don’t take the stand,” I said, “you’re licked. The jurors listen to the judge tell them that inasmuch as the defendant hasn’t taken the stand, they aren’t allowed to consider that in any way, and then go back to the jury room, look at each other, elect a foreman, and for a while nobody says anything. Then someone says, 'Well, what do you think?’ and someone else says, 'I think the so-and-so is guilty.’ Perhaps there’s an argument, and somebody blurts, 'Well, he didn’t dare to take the witness stand; you can see that,’ then someone says, 'But we’re not supposed to consider that,’ and then someone laughs, and then they have another ballot and the foreman announces they’ve agreed on a verdict, and that the defendant is guilty as hell.”
“But suppose you had taken the stand?” she wanted to know.
I smiled. “Then the district attorney tries to trap you on cross-examination. If he can get you mixed up, he pours a lot of sneering sarcasm at you and then gives you the works. If he can’t get you mixed up, he pauses for a long moment, then looks at you and says, 'Let’s see, Mr. Doe, you’ve been convicted of a felony, haven’t you? Back in nineteen-twenty-eight, I believe?’
“You look him in the eyes and say, 'Yes, sir,’ and you can feel the sympathy of the jury turning to ice. It isn’t alone the way the district attorney says it, but it’s the tone of voice he uses, as much as to say, 'Look at him, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, a graceful, gifted, talented, accomplished liar. He wants you to believe he’s innocent and yet I’ve just forced him to admit that he’s a crook, a professional criminal.’ ”
I stopped talking, so that there was a sudden dramatic silence.
After a moment, Genevieve asked, “And what does the jury do?”
“The jury,” I said, “loses interest in everything connected with the case. The only thing that concerns them is how soon they can get a chance to write a verdict of guilty and go home. What’s the use of wasting time on a crook? Throw the book at him. There should be a law against letting a crook have a jury trial, wasting the time of twelve good men and true.”
“But can’t you appeal?”
I laughed. “You can appeal only on questions of law. The verdict of the jury is final on questions of fact. You’ve been found guilty by due and proper legal procedure, and that’s it.”
“So what happens?”
“So,” I said, “you go to the Big House for the second time. This time, they give you quite a jolt. When you get out, you’re pretty apt to be sour and bitter at the whole thing. Then’s when you really start going wrong. And if you get caught again there’s nothing to it. The D.A. dangles two prior convictions in front of a jury. That time they send you up for life. You’re an habitual criminal. No, it’s a game you can’t beat — not unless you have some luck, some friends, a lot of determination, and a job with a boss who knows your past history and is willing to give you a chance to go straight.”
“But I should think society would make it easy for a man who has been convicted of crime to go straight. I always thought it was that way.”
“Lots of people do.”
We were silent for a little while. Then I said, “Pretty soon, when things have cooled off a bit, I’m going to leave here. After I do, give me about ten minutes, then call the police. Tell them that I knotted the blankets together and tossed them out of the window for a blind. Then I made you come up here with me and wait; that you were frightened stiff and didn’t dare not to do everything I asked. But give me a break on one thing.”
“What?”
“Say that you came with me because I asked you to; that you thought I’d kill you if you didn’t, but that at no time did I make any threats. All I did was to ask you to come. And when I left, I told you that, as a personal favor to me I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything for ten or fifteen minutes.”
She thought that over. “And I’m to tell them you didn’t make any threats?”
“Not right off the bat,” I said. “Think it over and...”
There were footsteps coming down the hall outside. Then the footsteps stopped in front of the door.
I heard Genevieve’s breath suck in, in a quick, gasping intake.
We sat perfectly still for a matter of some ten seconds. Then the steps moved slowly away.
I turned to Genevieve, whispered “Take it easy.”
She breathed my name.
Then, abruptly, the steps came back, paused once more in front of the door. Then, very gently, fingers tapped against the panels.
Genevieve’s hand came over to rest on mine. Her fingers were cold.
We sat perfectly still, waiting.
I heard the scrape of metal against the lock of the door — not a key. Somebody picking the lock.
It seemed that we sat there for more than a minute while we could hear the gentle scratching and scraping of metal against metal. Then the latch clicked back, and the door opened.
Silhouetted against the vague light of the outer corridor were two figures, two men moving with surreptitious stealth.
Every muscle in Genevieve’s body tightened. I knew she was going to scream. I slid my left arm up from her shoulders, clapped my hand over her mouth. That brought her back to sanity and got her nerves under control.
The two ominous figures moved on into the shadows of the apartment. I heard fingers groping along the wall for a light switch. Then abruptly the room clicked into brilliance.
Yat Sing and another Chinese stood peering into the room. Abruptly, Yat Sing gave an exclamation of satisfaction and gently closed the door.
I held my hand clamped over Genevieve’s mouth.
“Velly hard time to find,” Yat Sing said. “Police men big fools. See blanket hang from window. Think you go way. Yat Sing tries knots on blanket. Find too loose. If you go down blankets, knots be velly tight. Yat Sing think maybeso you somewhere in house. Findum all vacant apartments. Pick lock each apartment. Take long time. Velly solly not come sooner,” he said impassively.