a dunderhead.
Mr. Tutt waved the certificate threateningly at the judge.
“I cannot believe that Your Honor, after proper consideration, will exclude so vital a bit of testimony. I——”
His Honor flushed uncomfortably.
“I shall not change my ruling! I do not care to hear further argument.”
“But I have a right to be heard!” challenged Mr. Tutt. “I am responsible for the life of this defendant! I insist——”
Bang! went the gavel. “Sit down, sir!”
The old lawyer genuflected slightly, then bobbed up again.
“I rise to make an objection!”
“Your objection is overruled! Sit down!”
“I desire to state the grounds of my objection.”
“I do not care to hear them,” snapped Babson, making his first tactical slip. “I shall not give you the opportunity to make speeches out of order, for their effect upon the jury.”
Mr. Tutt drew himself up to his full height.
“I object to Your Honor’s remarks as prejudicial and uncalled for!” he thundered.
“Sit down, sir!”
“I also object to your Honor’s tone and manner as hostile and showing obvious bias. This isn’t a Nazi court!”
Bang! Bang! “Sit down! Unless you wish to be committed for contempt!”
Mr. Tutt looked toward the jury and shrugged hopelessly. No. 7 had slightly raised his eyebrows.
“I have no desire to be committed for contempt, but whatever course Your Honor sees fit to pursue, I must protect my client. I except to Your Honor’s ruling and to Your Honor’s threats!”
He sat down, leaving poor Babson in a dither of rage. A judge had to protect the dignity of his own court, didn’t he? He couldn’t let himself be insulted, could he?
From his seat upon the dais, he looked appealingly at the prosecutor, but O’Brion, blaming Babson for having lost his self-control, promptly lost his own. The judge should have put old Tutt in his place once and for all! The jury must be shown that this was no tea party, but a murder trial!
This he proceeded to do in his cross-examination of the defendant. Halloran was, at best, not quick-witted, and now, before he could get out his full answers, O’Brion worried, tore and twisted them into seeming contradictions. The effect was as if Carnera had been bound to a post, with Bomber Louis left free to slug him in the face as he would. And after O’Brion had got through with his bear-baiting, Babson, who had once himself been a prosecutor, could not refrain from taking a hand and showing by his questions that he regarded Halloran’s explanation of the loss of his revolver as fantastic.
Indeed, when the defendant climbed down and stumbled back to his seat, Mr. Tutt’s worst fears had been realized. True or not, no jury would ever believe his story!
“Nora, please take the stand.”
Hugging her baby, Mrs. Halloran came timidly forward. O’Brion, flushed with victory, proceeded to put his foot in it. “Sob stuff!” he croaked, for the benefit of the jury.
Mr. Tutt saw an expression of disapproval flit across the face of No. 7 and took courage.
“You are the wife of the defendant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell us, Nora, the date upon which you were married to Vance Halloran.”
O’Brion, still gambling on the overwhelming proof of guilt to swamp technical errors, leaped up. Babson, now wholly lost, simply followed his lead.
“Object!”
“Sustained.”
“Does Your Honor deny to this woman the right to show that her child was born in lawful wedlock!”
“That is not an issue in this case,” sneered O’Brion. “It is immaterial whose this child is, or whether it was borrowed for the occasion!”
Mr. Tutt turned furiously on the prosecutor.
“Such remarks are unconscionable and highly prejudicial to the defendant! I ask the court to declare a mistrial.”
“Motion denied,” retorted Babson, still smarting under the lash of Mr. Tutt’s reference to a Nazi court of justice.
“I take an exception,” said Mr. Tutt.... “That is all, Nora!”
“Wait a moment!” ordered O’Brion. “You say your flat was burglarized and that six dollars and a bracelet were taken?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you tell your husband about it?”
“Naturally.”
“Did he in turn, tell you that his gun had been stolen?”
The witness lowered her eyes.
“No.”
O’Brion exultantly faced the jury.
“That is all!”
Mr. Tutt shivered in spite of himself. As far as the facts went, she had done more harm than good. What a case! He had no other witnesses, save those as to character! Impressively as he could he called Father O’Conner, the parish priest; Murphy, the boss truckman of the Star; Schwartz, the butcher; Lefkowitz, the tailor; Tibberman, the undertaker; and Donovan, a retired policeman—all of whom swore that Vance Halloran’s reputation for honesty and truthfulness, peace and quiet, was good. O’Brion did not so much as glance at them, indicating by his manner that anyone—even a murderer—could obtain character witnesses for the asking.
“The defense rests.”
“The People rest.”
“Go to the jury!”
Mr. Tutt, with shoulders hunched, walked slowly to the front of the box.
“Mr. Foreman and gentlemen of the jury,” he began quietly enough, “the New York Code of Criminal Procedure was enacted for the purpose of insuring to every defendant accused of crime a fair and impartial trial under the established rules of evidence—a right asserted by the signers of our Declaration of Independence and guaranteed to us under the Constitution of the United States. The personal safety of each and every one of you depends upon the preservation of the inviolability of due legal process, uninfluenced by any sort of pressure, official or unofficial——”
“One moment! I object!” interrupted O’Brion. “This harangue has nothing to do with the case!”
Babson took the hint. He had a feeling that things were not going just right and that, somehow or other, the old man was putting
