“But how in Heaven’s name are these antics as here demonstrated on a man of Mr. Newcomb’s build to show what would follow in the case of a girl of the size and weight of Miss Alden?” persisted Belknap.
“Well, then we’ll put a girl of the size and weight of Miss Alden in here.” And at once calling for Zillah Saunders and putting her in Newcomb’s place. But Belknap none-the-less proceeding with:
“And what of that? The conditions aren’t the same. This boat isn’t on the water. No two people are going to be alike in their resistance or their physical responses to accidental blows.”
“Then you refuse to allow this demonstration to be made?” (This was from Mason, turning and cynically inquiring.)
“Oh, make it if you choose. It doesn’t mean anything though, as anybody can see,” persisted Belknap, suggestively.
And so Clyde, under directions from Mason, now pushing at Zillah, “about as hard,” (he thought) as he had accidentally pushed at Roberta. And she falling back a little—not much—but in so doing being able to lay a hand on each side of the boat and so save herself. And the jury, in spite of Belknap’s thought that his contentions would have counteracted all this, gathering the impression that Clyde, on account of his guilt and fear of death, was probably attempting to conjure something that had been much more viciously executed, to be sure. For had not the doctors sworn to the probable force of this and another blow on the top of the head? And had not Burton Burleigh testified to having discovered a hair in the camera? And how about the cry that woman had heard? How about that?
But with that particular incident the court was adjourned for this day.
On the following morning at the sound of the gavel, there was Mason, as fresh and vigorous and vicious as ever. And Clyde, after a miserable night in his cell and much bolstering by Jephson and Belknap, determined to be as cool and insistent and innocent-appearing as he could be, but with no real heart for the job, so convinced was he that local sentiment in its entirety was against him—that he was believed to be guilty. And with Mason beginning most savagely and bitterly:
“You still insist that you experienced a change of heart, do you, Griffiths?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Ever hear of people being resuscitated after they have apparently drowned?”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“You know, of course, that people who are supposed to be drowned, who go down for the last time and don’t come up, are occasionally gotten out of the water and revived, brought back to life by first-aid methods—working their arms and rolling them over a log or a barrel. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I think I have. I’ve heard of people being brought back to life after they’re supposed to be drowned, but I don’t think I ever heard just how.”
“You never did?”
“No, sir.”
“Or how long they could stay under water and still be revived?”
“No, sir. I never did.”
“Never heard, for instance, that a person who had been in the water as long as fifteen minutes might still be brought to?”
“No, sir.”
“So it never occurred to you after you swam to shore yourself that you might still call for aid and so save her life even then?”
“No, sir, it didn’t occur to me. I thought she was dead by then.”
“I see. But when she was still alive out there in the water—how about that? You’re a pretty good swimmer, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I swim fairly well.”
“Well enough, for instance, to save yourself by swimming over five hundred feet with your shoes and clothes on. Isn’t that so?”
“Well, I did swim that distance then—yes, sir.”
“Yes, you did indeed—and pretty good for a fellow who couldn’t swim thirty-five feet to an overturned boat, I’ll say,” concluded Mason.
Here Jephson waved aside Belknap’s suggestion that he move to have this comment stricken out.
Clyde was now dragged over his various boating and swimming experiences and made to tell how many times he had gone out on lakes in craft as dangerous as canoes and had never had an accident.
“The first time you took Roberta out on Crum Lake was in a canoe, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you had no accident then?”
“No, sir.”
“You cared for her then very much, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But the day she was drowned in Big Bittern, in this solid, round-bottomed row-boat, you didn’t care for her any more.”
“Well, I’ve said how I felt then.”
“And of course there couldn’t be any relation between the fact that on Crum Lake you cared for her but on Big Bittern——”
“I said how I felt then.”
“But you wanted to get rid of her just the same, didn’t you? The moment she was dead to run away to that other girl. You don’t deny that, do you?”
“I’ve explained why I did that,” reiterated Clyde.
“Explained! Explained! And you expect any fair-minded, decent, intelligent person to believe that explanation, do you?” Mason was fairly beside himself with rage and Clyde did not venture to comment as to that. The judge anticipated Jephson’s objection to this and bellowed, “Objection sustained.” But Mason went right on. “You couldn’t have been just a little careless, could you, Griffiths, in the handling of the boat and upset it yourself, say?” He drew near and leered.
“No, sir. I wasn’t careless. It was an accident that I couldn’t avoid.” Clyde was quite cool, though pale and tired.
“An accident. Like that other accident out there in Kansas City, for instance. You’re rather familiar with accidents of that kind, aren’t you, Griffiths?” queried Mason sneeringly and slowly.
“I’ve explained how that happened,” replied Clyde nervously.
“You’re rather familiar with accidents that result in death to girls, aren’t you? Do you always run away when one of them dies?”
“Object,” yelled Belknap, leaping to his feet.
“Objection sustained,” called Oberwaltzer sharply. “There is nothing before this court concerning any other accident. The prosecution will confine itself more closely to the case in hand.”
“Griffiths,” went on Mason, pleased with the way he had made a return to Jephson for his apology for the Kansas City accident, “when that boat upset after that accidental blow of yours and you and Miss Alden fell into the water—how far apart were you?”
“Well, I didn’t notice just then.”
“Pretty close, weren’t you? Not much more than a foot or two, surely—the way you stood there in the boat?”
“Well, I didn’t notice. Maybe that, yes, sir.”
“Close enough to have grabbed her and hung on to her if you had wanted to, weren’t you? That’s what you jumped up for, wasn’t it, when she started to fall out?”
“Yes, that’s what I jumped up for,” replied Clyde heavily, “but I wasn’t close enough to grab her. I know I went right under, and when I came up she was some little distance away.”
“Well, how far exactly? As far as from here to this end of the jury box or that end, or half way, or what?”
“Well, I say I didn’t notice, quite. About as far from here to that end, I guess,” he lied, stretching the distance by at least eight feet.
“Not really!” exclaimed Mason, pretending to evince astonishment. “This boat here turns over, you both fall in the water close together, and when you come up you and she are nearly twenty feet apart. Don’t you think your memory is getting a little the best of you there?”
“Well, that’s the way it looked to me when I came up.”
“Well, now, after that boat turned over and you both came up, where were you in relation to it? Here is the boat now and where were you out there in the audience, as to distance, I mean?”
“Well, as I say, I didn’t exactly
notice when I first came up,” returned Clyde, looking nervously and dubiously at the space before him. Most certainly a trap was being prepared for him. “About as far as from here to that railing beyond your table, I guess.”
“About thirty to thirty-five feet then,” suggested Mason, slyly and hopefully.
“Yes, sir. About that maybe. I couldn’t be quite sure.”
“And now with you over there and the boat here, where was Miss Alden at that time?”
And Clyde now sensed that Mason must have some geometric or mathematic scheme in mind whereby he proposed to establish his guilt. And at once he was on his guard, and looking in the direction of Jephson. At the same time he could not see how he was to put Roberta too far away either. He had said she couldn’t swim. Wouldn’t she be nearer the boat than he was? Most certainly. He leaped foolishly—wildly—at the thought that it might be best to say that she was about half that distance—not more, very likely. And said so. And at once Mason proceeded with:
“Well, then she was not more than fifteen feet or so from you or the boat.”
“No, sir, maybe not. I guess not.”
“Well then, do you mean to say that you couldn’t have swum that little distance and buoyed her up until you could reach the boat just fifteen feet beyond her?”
“Well, as I say, I was a little dazed when I came up and she was striking about and screaming so.”
“But there was that boat—not more than thirty-five feet away, according to your own story—and a mighty long way for a boat to move in that time, I’ll say. And do you mean to say that when you could swim five hundred feet to shore afterwards that you couldn’t have swum to that boat and pushed it to her in time for her to save herself? She was struggling to keep herself up, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, sir. But I was rattled at first,” pleaded Clyde, gloomily, conscious of the eyes of all the jurors and all the spectators fixed upon his face, “and . . . and . . .” (because of the general strain of the suspicion and incredulity now focused as a great force upon him, his nerve was all but failing him, and he was hesitating and stumbling) . . . “I didn’t think quite quick enough I guess, what to do. Besides I was afraid if I went near her . . .”
“I know. A mental and moral coward,” sneered Mason. “Besides very slow to think when it’s to your advantage to be slow and swift when it’s to your advantage to be swift. Is that it?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, if it isn’t, just tell me this, Griffiths, why was it, after you got out of the water a few moments later you had sufficient presence of mind to stop and bury that tripod before starting through the woods, whereas, when it came to rescuing her you got rattled and couldn’t do a thing? How was it that you could get so calm and calculating the moment you set your foot on land? What can you say to that?”
“Well . . . a . . . I told you that afterwards I realized that there was nothing else to do.”
“Yes, we know all about that. But doesn’t it occur to you that it takes a pretty cool head after so much panic in the water to stop at a moment like that and take such a precaution as that—burying that tripod? How was it that you could think so well of that and not think anything about the boat a few moments before?”
“Well . . . but . . .”
“You didn’t want her to live, in spite of your alleged change of heart! Isn’t that it?” yelled Mason. “Isn’t that the black, sad truth? She was drowning, as you wanted her to drown, and you just let her drown! Isn’t that so?”
He was fairly trembling as he shouted this, and Clyde, the actual boat before him and Roberta’s eyes and cries as she sank coming back to him with all their pathetic and horrible force, now shrank and cowered in his seat—the closeness of Mason’s interpretation of what had really happened terrifying him. For never, even to Jephson and Belknap, had he admitted that when Roberta was in the water he had not wished to save her. Changelessly and secretively he insisted he had wanted to but that it had all happened so quickly, and he was so dazed and frightened by her cries and movements, that he had not been able to do anything before she was gone.
“I . . . I wanted to save her,” he mumbled, his face quite gray, “but . . . but . . . as I said, I was dazed . . . and . . . and . . . and . . .”
“Don’t you know that you’re lying!” shouted Mason, leaning still closer, his stout arms aloft, his disfigured face glowering and scowling like some avenging nemesis or fury of gargoyle design—“that you deliberately and with cold-hearted cunning allowed that poor, tortured girl to die there when you might have rescued her as easily as you could have swum fifty of those five hundred feet you did swim in order to save yourself?” For by now he was convinced that he knew just how Clyde had actually slain Roberta, something in his manner and mood convincing him, and he was determined to drag it out of him if he could. And although Belknap was instantly on his feet with a protest that his client was being unfairly prejudiced in the eyes of the jury and that he was really entitled to—and now demanded—a mistrial—which complaint Justice Oberwaltzer eventually overruled—still Clyde had time to reply, but most meekly and feebly; “No! No! I didn’t. I wanted to save her if I could.” Yet his whole manner, as each and every juror noted, was that of one who was not really telling the truth, who was really all of the mental and moral coward that Belknap had insisted he was—but worse yet, really guilty of Roberta’s death. For after all, asked each juror of himself as he listened, why couldn’t he have saved her if he was strong enough to swim to shore afterwards—or at least have swum to, and secured the boat and helped her to take hold of it?
“She only weighed a hundred pounds, didn’t she?” went on Mason feverishly.
“Yes, I think so.”
“And you—what did you weigh at the time?”
“About a hundred and forty,” replied Clyde.
“And a hundred and forty pound man,” sneered Mason, turning to the jury, “is afraid to go near a weak, sick, hundred-pound little girl who is drowning, for fear she will cling to him and drag him under! And a perfectly good boat, strong enough to hold three or four up, within fifteen or twenty feet! How’s that?”
And to emphasize it and let it sink in, he now paused, and took from his pocket a large white handkerchief, and after wiping his neck and face and wrists—since they were quite damp from his emotional and physical efforts—turned to Burton Burleigh and called; “You might as well have this boat taken out of here, Burton. We’re not going to need it for a little while anyhow.” And forthwith the four deputies carried it out.
And then, having recovered his poise, he once more turned to Clyde and began with: “Griffiths, you knew the color and feel of Roberta Alden’s hair pretty well, didn’t you? You were intimate enough with her, weren’t you?”
“I know the color of it or I think I do,” replied Clyde wincing—an anguished chill at the thought of it affecting him almost observably.
“And the feel of it, too, didn’t you?” persisted Mason. “In those very loving days of yours before Miss X came along—you must have touched it often enough.”
“I don’t know whether I did or not,” replied Clyde, catching a glance from Jephson.
“Well, roughly. You must know whether it was coarse or fine—silky or coarse. You know that, don’t you?”
“It was silky, yes.”
“Well, here’s a lock of it,” he now added more to torture Clyde than anything else—to wear him down nervously—and going to his table where was an envelope and from it extracting a long lock of light brown hair. “Don’t that look like her hair?” And now he shoved it forward at Clyde who shocked and troubled withdrew from it as from some unclean or dangerous thing—yet a moment after sought to recover himself—the watchful eyes of the jury having noted all. “Oh, don’t be afraid,” persisted Mason, sardonically. “It’s only your dead love’s hair.”
And shocked by the comment—and noting the curious eyes of the jury, Clyde took it in his hand. “That looks and feels like her hair
, doesn’t it?” went on Mason.
“Well, it looks like it anyhow,” returned Clyde shakily.
“And now here,” continued Mason, stepping quickly to the table and returning with the camera in which between the lid and the taking mechanism were caught the two threads of Roberta’s hair put there by Burleigh, and then holding it out to him. “Just take this camera. It’s yours even though you did swear that it wasn’t—and look at those two hairs there. See them?” And he poked the camera at Clyde as though he might strike him with it. “They were caught in there—presumably—at the time you struck her so lightly that it made all those wounds on her face. Can’t you tell the jury whether those hairs are hers or not?”
“I can’t say,” replied Clyde most weakly.
“What’s that? Speak up. Don’t be so much of a moral and mental coward. Are they or are they not?”
“I can’t say,” repeated Clyde—but not even looking at them.
“Look at them. Look at them. Compare them with these others. We know these are hers. And you know that these in this camera are, don’t you? Don’t be so squeamish. You’ve often touched her hair in real life. She’s dead. They won’t bite you. And these two hairs—or are they not—the same as these other hairs here—which we know are hers—the same color—same feel—all? Look! Answer! Are they or are they not?”
An American Tragedy Page 92