This was really cross-examination—an attack on his own witness. Yet Jephson was within his rights and Mason did not interfere.
“Well . . .” and here Clyde hesitated and stumbled, quite as if he had not been instructed as to all this beforehand, and seemed to and did truly finger about in his own mind or reason for some thought that would help him to explain all this. For although it was true that he had memorized the answer, now that he was confronted by the actual question here in court, as well as the old problem that had so confused and troubled him in Lycurgus, he could scarcely think clearly of all he had been told to say, but instead twisted and turned, and finally came out with:
“The fact is, I didn’t think about those things at all very much. I couldn’t after I saw her. I tried to at times, but I couldn’t. I only wanted her and I didn’t want Miss Alden any more. I knew I wasn’t doing right—exactly—and I felt sorry for Roberta—but just the same I didn’t seem able to do anything much about it. I could only think of Miss X and I could-n’t think of Roberta as I had before no matter how hard I tried.”
“Do you mean to say that you didn’t suffer in your own conscience on account of this?”
“Yes, sir, I suffered,” replied Clyde. “I knew I wasn’t doing right, and it made me worry a lot about her and myself, but just the same I didn’t seem to be able to do any better.” (He was repeating words that Jephson had written out for him, although at the time he first read them he felt them to be fairly true. He had suffered some.)
“And then?”
“Well, then she began to complain because I didn’t go round to see her as much as before.”
“In other words, you began to neglect her.”
“Yes, sir, some—but not entirely—no, sir.”
“Well, when you found you were so infatuated with this Miss X, what did you do? Did you go and tell Miss Alden that you were no longer in love with her but in love with some one else?”
“No, I didn’t. Not then.”
“Why not then? Did you think it fair and honorable to be telling two girls at once that you cared for them?”
“No, sir, but it wasn’t quite like that either. You see at that time I was just getting acquainted with Miss X, and I wasn’t telling her anything. She wouldn’t let me. But I knew then, just the same, that I couldn’t care for Miss Alden any more.”
“But what about the claim Miss Alden had on you? Didn’t you feel that that was enough or should be, to prevent you from running after another girl?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, why did you then?”
“I couldn’t resist her.”
“Miss X, you mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And so you continued to run after her until you had made her care for you?”
“No, sir, that wasn’t the way at all.”
“Well then, what was the way?”
“I just met her here and there and got crazy about her.”
“I see. But still you didn’t go and tell Miss Alden that you couldn’t care for her any longer?”
“No, sir. Not then.”
“And why not?”
“Because I thought it would hurt her, and I didn’t want to do that.”
“Oh, I see. You didn’t have the moral or mental courage to do it then?”
“I don’t know about the moral or mental courage,” replied Clyde, a little hurt and irritated by this description of himself, “but I felt sorry for her just the same. She used to cry and I didn’t have the heart to tell her anything.”
“I see. Well, let it stand that way, if you want to. But now answer me one other thing. That relationship between you two—what about that—after you knew that you didn’t care for her any more. Did that continue?”
“Well, no, sir, not so very long, anyhow,” replied Clyde, most nervously and shamefacedly. He was thinking of all the people before him now—of his mother—Sondra—of all the people throughout the entire United States—who would read and so know. And on first being shown these questions weeks and weeks before he had wanted to know of Jephson what the use of all that was. And Jephson had replied: “Educational effect. The quicker and harder we can shock ’em with some of the real facts of life around here, the easier it is going to be for you to get a little more sane consideration of what your problem was. But don’t worry your head over that now. When the time comes, just answer ’em and leave the rest to us. We know what we’re doing.” And so now Clyde added:
“You see, after meeting Miss X I couldn’t care for her so much that way any more, and so I tried not to go around her so much any more. But anyhow, it wasn’t so very long after that before she got in trouble and then—well——”
“I see. And when was that—about?”
“Along in the latter part of January last year.”
“And once that happened, then what? Did you or did you not feel that it was your duty under the circumstances to marry her?”
“Well, no—not the way things were then—that is, if I could get her out of it, I mean.”
“And why not? What do you mean by ‘as things were then’?”
“Well, you see, it was just as I told you. I wasn’t caring for her any more, and since I hadn’t promised to marry her, and she knew it, I thought it would be fair enough if I helped her out of it and then told her that I didn’t care for her as I once did.”
“But couldn’t you help her out of it?”
“No, sir. But I tried.”
“You went to that druggist who testified here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“To anybody else?”
“Yes, sir—to seven others before I could get anything at all.”
“But what you got didn’t help?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you go to that young haberdasher who testified here as he said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did he give you the name of any particular doctor?”
“Well—yes—but I wouldn’t care to say which one.”
“All right, you needn’t. But did you send Miss Alden to any doctor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did she go alone or did you go with her?”
“I went with her—that is, to the door.”
“Why only to the door?”
“Well, we talked it over, and she thought just as I did, that it might be better that way. I didn’t have any too much money at the time. I thought he might be willing to help her for less if she went by herself than if we both went together.”
(“I’ll be damned if he isn’t stealing most of my thunder,” thought Mason to himself at this point. “He’s forestalling most of the things I intended to riddle him with.” And he sat up worried. Burleigh and Redmond and Earl Newcomb—all now saw clearly what Jephson was attempting to do.)
“I see. And it wasn’t by any chance because you were afraid that your uncle or Miss X might hear of it?”
“Oh, yes, I . . . that is, we both thought of that and talked of it. She understood how things were with me down there.”
“But not about Miss X?”
“No, not about Miss X.”
“And why not?”
“Well, because I didn’t think I could very well tell her just then. It would have made her feel too bad. I wanted to wait until she was all right again.”
“And then tell her and leave her. Is that what you mean?”
“Well, yes, if I still couldn’t care for her any more—yes, sir.”
“But not if she was in trouble?”
“Well, no, sir, not if she was in trouble. But you see, at that time I was expecting to be able to get her out of that.”
“I see. But didn’t her condition affect your attitude toward her—cause you to want to straighten the whole thing out by giving up this Miss X and marrying Miss Alden?”
“Well, no, sir—not then exactly—that is, not at that time.”
“How do you mean—‘not at that time’?”
&
nbsp; “Well, I did come to feel that way later, as I told you—but not then—that was afterwards—after we started on our trip to the Adirondacks.”
“And why not then?”
“I’ve said why. I was too crazy about Miss X to think of anything but her.”
“You couldn’t change even then?”
“No, sir. I felt sorry, but I couldn’t.”
“I see. But never mind that now. I will come to that later. Just now I want to have you explain to the jury, if you can, just what it was about this Miss X, as contrasted with Miss Alden, that made her seem so very much more desirable in your eyes. Just what characteristics of manner or face or mind or position—or whatever it was that so enticed you? Or do you know?”
This was a question which both Belknap and Jephson in various ways and for various reasons—psychic, legal, personal—had asked Clyde before, and with varying results. At first he could not and would not discuss her at all, fearing that whatever he said would be seized upon and used in his trial and the newspapers along with her name. But later when because of the silence of the newspapers everywhere in regard to her true name, it became plain that she was not to be featured, he permitted himself to talk more freely about her. But now here on the stand, he grew once more nervous and reticent.
“Well, you see, it’s hard to say. She was very beautiful to me. Much more so than Roberta—but not only that, she was different from any one I had ever known—more independent—and everybody paid so much attention to what she did and what she said. She seemed to know more than any one else I ever knew. Then she dressed awfully well, and was very rich and in society and her name and pictures were always in the paper. I used to read about her every day when I didn’t see her, and that seemed to keep her before me a lot. She was daring, too—not so simple or trusting as Miss Alden was—and at first it was hard for me to believe that she was becoming so interested in me. It got so that I couldn’t think of any one or anything else, and I didn’t want Roberta any more. I just couldn’t, with Miss X always before me.”
“Well, it looks to me as if you might have been in love, or hypnotized at that,” insinuated Jephson at the conclusion of this statement, the tail of his right eye upon the jury. “If that isn’t a picture of pretty much all gone, I guess I don’t know one when I see it.” But with the audience and the jury as stony-faced as before, as he could see.
But immediately thereafter the swift and troubled waters of the alleged plot which was the stern trail to which all this was leading.
“Well, now, Clyde, from there on, just what happened. Tell us now, as near as you can recall. Don’t shade it or try to make yourself look any better or any worse. She is dead and you may be, eventually, if these twelve gentlemen here finally so decide.” (And at this an icy chill seemed to permeate the entire courtroom as well as Clyde.) “But the truth for the peace of your own soul is the best,”—and here Jephson thought of Mason—let him counteract that if he can.
“Yes, sir,” said Clyde, simply.
“Well, then, after she got in trouble and you couldn’t help her, then what? What was it you did? How did you act? . . . By the way, one moment—what was your salary at that time?”
“Twenty-five dollars a week,” confessed Clyde.
“No other source of income?”
“I didn’t quite hear.”
“Was there any other source from which you were obtaining any money at that time in any way?”
“No, sir.”
“And how much was your room?”
“Seven dollars a week.”
“And your board?”
“Oh, from five to six.”
“Any other expenses?”
“Yes, sir—my clothes and laundry.”
“You had to stand your share of whatever social doings were on foot, didn’t you?”
“Objected to as leading!” called Mason.
“Objection sustained,” replied Justice Oberwaltzer.
“Any other expenses that you can think of?”
“Well, there were carfares and trainfares. And then I had to share in whatever social expenses there were.”
“Exactly!” cried Mason, with great irritation. “I wish you would quit leading this parrot here.”
“I wish the honorable district attorney would mind his own business!” snorted Jephson—as much for Clyde’s benefit as for his own. He wished to break down his fear of Mason. “I’m examining this defendant, and as for parrots we’ve seen quite a number of them around here in the last few weeks, and coached to the throat like school-boys.”
“That’s a malicious lie!” shouted Mason. “I object and demand an apology.”
“The apology is to me and to this defendant, if your Honor pleases, and will be exacted quickly if your Honor will only adjourn this court for a few minutes,” and then stepping directly in front of Mason, he added: “And I will be able to obtain it without any judicial aid.” Whereupon Mason, thinking he was about to be attacked, squared off, the while assistants and deputy sheriffs, and stenographers and writers, and the clerk of the court himself, gathered round and seized the two lawyers while Justice Oberwaltzer pounded violently on his desk with his gavel:
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! You are both in contempt of court, both of you! You will apologize to the court and to each other, or I’ll declare a mistrial and commit you both for ten days and fine you five hundred dollars each.” With this he leaned down and frowned on both. And at once Jephson replied, most suavely and ingratiatingly: “Under the circumstances, your Honor, I apologize to you and to the attorney for the People and to this jury. The attack on this defendant, by the district attorney, seemed too unfair and uncalled for—that was all.”
“Never mind that,” continued Oberwaltzer.
“Under the circumstances, your Honor, I apologize to you and to the counsel for the defense. I was a little hasty, perhaps. And to this defendant also,” sneered Mason, after first looking into Justice Oberwaltzer’s angry and uncompromising eyes and then into Clyde’s, who instantly recoiled and turned away.
“Proceed,” growled Oberwaltzer, sullenly.
“Now, Clyde,” resumed Jephson anew, as calm as though he had just lit and thrown away a match. “You say your salary was twenty-five dollars and you had these various expenses. Had you, up to this time, been able to put aside any money for a rainy day?”
“No, sir—not much—not any, really.”
“Well, then, supposing some doctor to whom Miss Alden had applied had been willing to assist her and wanted—say a hundred dollars or so—were you ready to furnish that?”
“No, sir—not right off, that is.”
“Did she have any money of her own that you know of?”
“None that I know of—no, sir.”
“Well, how did you intend to help her then?”
“Well, I thought if either she or I found any one and he would wait and let me pay for it on time, that I could save and pay it that way, maybe.”
“I see. You were perfectly willing to do that, were you?”
“Yes, sir, I was.”
“You told her so, did you?”
“Yes, sir. She knew that.”
“Well, when neither you nor she could find any one to help her, then what? What did you do next?”
“Well, then she wanted me to marry her.”
“Right away?”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
“And what did you say to that?”
“I told her I just couldn’t then. I didn’t have any money to get married on. And besides if I did and didn’t go away somewhere, at least until the baby was born, everybody would find out and I couldn’t have stayed there anyhow. And she couldn’t either.”
“And why not?”
“Well, there were my relatives. They wouldn’t have wanted to keep me any more, or her either, I guess.”
“I see. They wouldn’t have considered you fit for the work you were doing, or her either. Is that it?”
“I thought so, anyhow,” replied Clyde.
“And then what?”
“Well, even if I had wanted to go away with her and marry her, I didn’t have enough money to do that and she didn’t either. I would have had to give up my place and gone and found another somewhere before I could let her come. Besides that, I didn’t know any place where I could go and earn as much as I did there.”
“How about hotel work? Couldn’t you have gone back to that?”
“Well, maybe—if I had an introduction of some kind. But I didn’t want to go back to that.”
“And why not?”
“Well, I didn’t like it so much any more—not that kind of life.”
“But you didn’t mean that you didn’t want to do anything at all, did you? That wasn’t your attitude, was it?”
“Oh, no, sir. That wasn’t it. I told her right away if she would go away for a while—while she had her baby—and let me stay on there in Lycurgus, that I would try to live on less and give her all I could save until she was all right again.”
“But not marry her?”
“No, sir, I didn’t feel that I could do that then.”
“And what did she say to that?”
“She wouldn’t do it. She said she couldn’t and wouldn’t go through with it unless I would marry her.”
“I see. Then and there?”
“Well, yes—pretty soon, anyhow. She was willing to wait a little while, but she wouldn’t go away unless I would marry her.”
“And did you tell her that you didn’t care for her any more?”
“Well, nearly—yes, sir.”
“What do you mean by ‘nearly’?”
“Well, that I didn’t want to. Besides, she knew I didn’t care for her any more. She said so herself.”
“To you, at that time?”
“Yes, sir. Lots of times.”
An American Tragedy Page 89