The two months
preceding the trial were months of restless agony to
the prisoner, Kalmar. Day and night he paced his cell like a tiger
in a cage, taking little food and sleeping only when overcome with
exhaustion. It was not the confinement that fretted him. The
Winnipeg jail, with all its defects and limitations, was a palace
to some that he had known. It was not the fear of the issue to
his trial that drove sleep and hunger from him. Death, exile,
imprisonment, had been too long at his heels to be strangers to him
or to cause him fear. In his heart a fire burned. Rosenblatt
still lived, and vengeance had halted in its pursuit.
But deep as was the
passion in his heart for vengeance, that for
his country and his cause burned deeper. He had been able to
establish lines of communication between his fatherland and the new
world by means of which the oppressed, the hunted, might reach
freedom and safety. The final touches to his plans were still to
be given. Furthermore, it was necessary that he should make his
report in person, else much of his labour would be fruitless. It
was this that brought him "white nights" and black days.
Every day Paulina
called at the jail and waited long hours with
uncomplaining patience in the winter cold, till she could be
admitted. Her husband showed no sign of interest, much less of
gratitude. One question alone, he asked day by day.
"The children are
well?"
"They are well,"
Paulina would answer. "They ask to see you every
day."
"They may not see me
here," he would reply, after which she would
turn away, her dull face full of patient suffering.
One item of news she
brought him that gave him a moment's cheer.
"Kalman," she said, one
day, "will speak nothing but Russian."
"Ha!" he exclaimed. "He
is my son indeed. But," he added
gloomily," of what use now?"
Others sought
admission,--visitors from the Jail Mission,
philanthropic ladies, a priest from St. Boniface, a Methodist
minister,--but all were alike denied. Simon Ketzel he sent for,
and with him held long converse, with the result that he was able
to secure for his defence the services of O'Hara, the leading
criminal lawyer of Western Canada. There appeared to be no lack
of money, and all that money could do was done.
The case began to
excite considerable interest, not only in the
city, but throughout the whole country. Public opinion was strongly
against the prisoner. Never in the history of the new country had a
crime been committed of such horrible and bloodthirsty deliberation.
It is true that this opinion was based largely upon Rosenblatt's
deposition, taken by Sergeant Cameron and Dr. Wright when he was
supposed to be in extremis, and upon various newspaper interviews
with him that appeared from time to time. The Morning News in a
trenchant leader pointed out the danger to which Western Canada was
exposed from the presence of these semibarbarous peoples from
Central and Southern Europe, and expressed the hope that the
authorities would deal with the present case in such a manner as
would give a severe but necessary lesson to the lawless among our
foreign population.
There was, indeed, from
the first, no hope of acquittal. Staunton,
who was acting for the Crown, was convinced that the prisoner would
receive the maximum sentence allowed by law. And even O'Hara
acknowledged privately to his solicitor that the best he could hope
for was a life sentence. "And, by gad! he ought to get it! It is
the most damnable case of bloody murder that I have come across in
all my practice!" But this was before Mr. O'Hara had interviewed
Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
In his hunt for
evidence Mr. O'Hara had come upon his fellow
countrywoman in the foreign colony. At first from sheer delight in
her rich brogue and her shrewd native wit, and afterward from the
conviction that her testimony might be turned to good account on
behalf of his client, Mr. O'Hara diligently cultivated Mrs.
Fitzpatrick's acquaintance. It helped their mutual admiration and
their friendship not a little to discover their common devotion to
"the cause o' the paythriot in dear owld Ireland," and their mutual
interest in the prisoner Kalmar, as a fellow "paythriot."
Immediately upon his
discovery of the rich possibilities in Mrs.
Fitzpatrick Mr. O'Hara got himself invited to drink a "cup o' tay,"
which, being made in the little black teapot brought all the way
from Ireland, he pronounced to be the finest he had had since
coming to Canada fifteen years ago. Indeed, he declared that he
had serious doubts as to the possibilities of producing on this
side of the water and by people of this country just such tea as he
had been accustomed to drink in the dear old land. It was over
this cup of tea, and as he drew from Mrs. Fitzpatrick the
description of the scene between the Nihilist and his children,
that Mr. O'Hara came to realise the vast productivity of the mine
he had uncovered. He determined that Mrs. Fitzpatrick should tell
this tale in court.
"We'll bate that divil
yet!" he exclaimed to his new-found friend,
his brogue taking a richer flavour from his environment. "They
would be having the life of the poor man for letting a little of
the black blood out of the black heart of that traitor and
blackguard, and may the divil fly away with him! But we'll bate
them yet, and it's yersilf is the one to do it!" he exclaimed in
growing excitement and admiration.
At first Mrs.
Fitzpatrick was most reluctant to appear in court.
"Sure, what would I do
or say in the face av His 'Anner an' the
joorymin, with niver a word on the tongue av me?"
"And would you let the
poor man go to his death?" cried O'Hara,
proceeding to draw a lurid picture of the deadly machinations of
the lawyer for the Crown, Rosenblatt and their associates against
this unfortunate patriot who, for love of his country and for the
honour of his name, had sought to wreak a well-merited vengeance
upon the abject traitor.
Under his vehement
eloquence Mrs. Fitzpatrick's Celtic nature
kindled into flame. She would go to the court, and in the face of
Judge and jury and all the rest of them, she would tell them the
kind of man they were about to do to death. Over and over again
O'Hara had her repeat her story, emphasising with adjurations,
oaths and even tears, those passages that his experience told him
would be most effective for his purpose, till he felt sure she
would do full credit to her part.
During the trial the
court room was crowded, not only with the
ordinary morbid sensation seekers, but with some of Winnipeg's most
respectable citizens. In one corner of the court room there was
grouped day after day a small company of foreigners. Every man of
Russian blood in the city who could attend, was there. It was
against the prisoner's will and desire, but in accordance with
O'Hara's plan of defence that Paulina and the children should be
present at every session of the court. The proceedings were
conducted through an interpreter where it was necessary, Kalmar
pleading ignorance of the niceties of the English language.
The prisoner was
arraigned on the double charge of attempted murder
in the case of Rosenblatt, and of manslaughter in that of the dead
Polak. The evidence of Dr. Wright and of Sergeant Cameron,
corroborated by that of many eyewitnesses, established beyond a
doubt that the wound in Rosenblatt's breast and in the dead Polak's
neck was done by the same instrument, and that instrument the
spring knife discovered in the basement of Paulina's house.
Kalmar, arrayed in his
false black beard, was identified by the
Dalmatian and by others as the Polak's partner in the fatal game of
cards. Staunton had little difficulty in establishing the identity
of the black-bearded man who had appeared here and there during the
wedding festivities with Kalmar himself. From the stupid Paulina
he skilfully drew evidence substantiating this fact, and though
this evidence was ruled out on the ground that she was the
prisoner's wife, the effect upon the jury was not lost.
The most damaging
testimony was, of course, that offered by
Rosenblatt himself, and this evidence Staunton was clever enough to
use with dramatic effect. Pale, wasted, and still weak, Rosenblatt
told his story to the court in a manner that held the crowd
breathless with horror. Never had such a tale been told to
Canadian ears. The only man unmoved was the prisoner. Throughout
the narrative he maintained an attitude of bored indifference.
It was not in vain,
however, that O'Hara sought to weaken the
effect of Rosenblatt's testimony by turning the light upon some
shady spots in his career. In his ruthless "sweating" of the
witness, the lawyer forced the admission that he had once been the
friend of the prisoner; that he had been the unsuccessful suitor of
the prisoner's first wife; that he had been a member of the same
Secret Society in Russia; that he had joined the Secret Service of
the Russian Government and had given evidence leading to the
breaking up of that Society; that he had furnished the information
that led to the prisoner's transportation to Siberia. At this
point O'Hara swiftly changed his ground.
"You have befriended
this woman, Paulina Koval?"
"Yes."
"You have, in fact,
acted as her financial agent?"
"I have assisted her in
her financial arrangements. She cannot
speak English."
"Whose house does she
live in?"
Rosenblatt hesitated.
"I am not sure."
"Whose house does she
live in?" roared O'Hara, stepping toward him.
"Her own, I think."
"You think!" shouted
the lawyer. "You know, don't you? You bought
it for her. You made the first payment upon it, did you not?"
"Yes, I did."
"And since that time
you have cashed money orders for her that have
come month by month?"
Again Rosenblatt
hesitated. "I have sometimes--"
"Tell the truth!"
shouted O'Hara again; "a lie here can be easily
traced. I have the evidence. Did you not cash the money orders
that came month by month addressed to Paulina Koval?"
"I did, with her
permission. She made her mark."
"Where did the money
go?"
"I gave it to her."
"And what did she do
with it?"
"I don't know."
"Did she not give you
money from time to time to make payments upon
the house?"
"No."
"Be careful. Let me
remind you that there is a law against
perjury. I give you another chance. Did you not receive certain
money to make payments on this house?" O'Hara spoke with terrible
and deliberate emphasis.
"I did, some."
"And did you make these
payments?"
"Yes."
"Would you be surprised
to know, as I now tell the court, that
since the first payment, made soon after the arrival in the
country, not a dollar further had been paid?"
Rosenblatt was silent.
"Answer me!" roared the
lawyer. "Would you be surprised to know
this?"
"Yes."
"This surprise is
waiting you. Now then, who runs this house?"
"Paulina Koval."
"Tell me the truth. Who
lets the rooms in this house, and who is
responsible for the domestic arrangements of the house? Tell me,"
said O'Hara, bearing down upon the wretched Rosenblatt.
"I--assist--her--sometimes."
"Then you are
responsible for the conditions under which Paulina
Koval has been forced to live during these three years?"
Rosenblatt was silent.
"That will do," said
O'Hara with contempt unspeakable.
He could easily have
made more out of his sweating process had not
the prisoner resolutely forbidden any reference to Rosenblatt's
treatment of and relation to the unfortunate Paulina or the
domestic arrangements that he had introduced into that unfortunate
woman's household. Kalmar was rigid in his determination that no
stain should come to his honour in this regard.
With the testimony of
each succeeding witness the cloud overhanging
the prisoner grew steadily blacker. The first ray of light came
from an unexpected quarter. It was during the examination of Mrs.
Fitzpatrick that O'Hara got his first opening. It was a master
stroke of strategy on his part that Mrs. Fitzpatrick was made to
appear as a witness for the Crown, for the purpose of establishing
the deplorable and culpable indifference to and neglect of his
family on the part of the prisoner.
Day after day Mrs.
Fitzpatrick had appeared in the court, following
the evidence with rising wrath against the Crown, its witnesses,
and all the machinery of prosecution. All unwitting of this
surging tide of indignation in the heart of his witness the Crown
Counsel summoned her to the stand. Mr. Staunton's manner was
exceedingly affable.
"Your name, Madam?" he
enquired.
"Me name is it?"
replied the witness. "An' don't ye know me name
as well as I do mesilf?"
Mr. Staunton smiled
pleasantly. "But the court desires to share
that privilege with me, so perhaps you will be good enough to
inform the court of your name."
"If the court wants me
name let the court ask it. An' if you want
to tell the court me name ye can plaze yersilf, fer it's little I
think av a man that'll sit in me house by the hour forninst mesilf
an' me husband there, and then let on before the court that he
doesn't know the name av me."
"Why, my dear Madam,"
said the lawyer soothingly, "it is a mere
matter of form that you should tell the court your name."
"A matter o' form, is
it? Indade, an' it's mighty poor form it is,
if ye ask my opinion, which ye don't, an' it's mighty poor manners."
At this point the judge
interposed.
"Come, come," he said,
"what is your name? I suppose you are not
ashamed of it?"
"Ashamed av it, Yer 'Anner!"
said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, with an
elaborate bow to the judge, "ashamed av it! There's niver a shame
goes with the name av Fitzpatrick!"
"Your name is
Fitzpatrick?"
"It is, Yer 'Anner.
Mistress Timothy Fitzpatrick, Monaghan that
was, the Monaghans o' Ballinghalereen, which I'm sure Yer 'Anner'll
have heard of, fer the intilligent man ye are."
"Mrs. Timothy
Fitzpatrick," said the judge, with the suspicion of a
smile, writing the name down. "And your first name?"
"Me Christian name is
it? Ah, thin, Judge dear, wud ye be wantin'
that too?" smiling at him in quite a coquettish manner. "Sure, if
ye had had the good taste an' good fortune to be born in the County
Mayo ye wudn't nade to be askin' the name av Nora Monaghan o'
Ballinghalereen."
The judge's face was
now in a broad smile.
"Nora Fitzpatrick," he
said, writing the name down. "Let us
proceed."
"Well, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick," said the counsel for the Crown, "will you
kindly look at the prisoner?"
Mrs. Fitzpatrick turned
square about and let her eyes rest upon the
prisoner's pale face.
"I will that," said
she, "an' there's many another I'd like to see
in his place."
"Do you know him?"
"I do that. An' a finer
gintleman I niver saw, savin' Yer 'Anner's
prisence," bowing to the judge.
"Oh, indeed! A fine
gentleman? And how do you know that, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick?"
"How do I know a
gintleman, is it? Sure, it's by the way he trates
a lady."
"Ah," said the lawyer
with a most courteous bow, "that is a most
excellent test. And what do you know of this--ah--this gentleman's
manners with ladies?"
"An' don't I know how
he trates mesilf? He's not wan to fergit a
lady's name, you may lay to that."
"Oh, indeed, he has
treated you in a gentlemanly manner?"
"He has."
"And do you think this
is his usual manner with ladies?"
"I do," said Mrs.
Fitzpatrick with great emphasis. "A gintleman, a
rale gintleman, is the same to a lady wheriver he mates her, an'
the same to ladies whativer they be."
"Mrs. Fitzpatrick,"
said Mr. Staunton, "you have evidently a most
excellent taste in gentlemen."
"I have that same," she
replied. "An' I know thim that are no
gintlemen," she continued with meaning emphasis, "whativer their
clothes may be."
A titter ran through
the court room.
"Silence in the court!"
shouted the crier.
"Now, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick," proceeded Mr. Staunton, taking a firmer
tone, "you say the prisoner is a gentleman."
"I do. An' I can tell
ye--"
"Wait, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick. Wait a moment. Do you happen to know his
wife?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know his
wife?"
"Perhaps I do if you
say so."
"But, my good woman, I
don't say so. Do you know his wife, or do
you not know his wife?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean?"
said Mr. Staunton impatiently. "Do you mean
that you have no acquaintance with the wife of the prisoner?"
"I might."
"What do you mean by
might?"
"Aw now," remonstrated
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "sure, ye wouldn't be
askin' a poor woman like me the manin' av a word like that."
"Now, Mrs. Fitzpatrick,
let us get done with this fooling. Tell me
whether you know the prisoner's wife or not."
"Indade, an' the sooner
yer done the better I'd like it."
"Well, then, tell me.
You either know the prisoner's wife or you
don't know her?"
"That's as may be,"
said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
"Then tell me,"
thundered Staunton, losing all patience, "do you
know this woman or not?" pointing to Paulina.
"That woman is it?"
said Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "An' why didn't ye save
yer breath an' His 'Anner's time, not to shpake av me own that has
to work fer me daily bread, by askin' me long ago if I know this
woman?"
"Well, do you know
her?"
"I do."
"Then why did you not
say so before when I asked you?" said the
exasperated lawyer.
"I did," said Mrs.
Fitzpatrick calmly.
"Did you not say that
you did not know the wife of the prisoner?"
"I did not," said Mrs.
Fitzpatrick.
By this time the whole
audience, including the judge, were
indulging themselves in a wide open smile.
"Well, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick," at length said the lawyer, "I must be
decidedly stupid, for I fail to understand you."
"Indade, I'll not be
contradictin' ye, fer it's yersilf ought to
know best about that," replied Mrs. Fitzpatrick pleasantly.
A roar of laughter
filled the court room.
"Silence in the court!
We must have order," said the judge,
recovering his gravity with such celerity as he could. "Go on, Mr.
Staunton."
"Well, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, I understand that you know this woman,
Paulina Koval."
"It's mesilf that's
plazed to hear it."
"And I suppose you know
that she is the prisoner's wife?"
"An' why wud ye be
afther supposin' such a thing?"
"Well! well! Do you
know it?"
"Do I know what?"
"Do you know that this
woman, Paulina Koval, is the wife of the
prisoner?"
"She might be."
"Oh, come now, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, we are not splitting hairs. You
know perfectly well that this woman is the prisoner's wife."
"Indade, an' it's the
cliver man ye are to know what I know better
than I know mesilf."
"Well, well," said Mr.
Staunton impatiently, "will you say that you
do not consider this woman the prisoner's wife?"
"I will not," replied
Mrs. Fitzpatrick emphatically, "any more than
I won't say she's yer own."
"Well, well, let us get
on. Let us suppose that this woman is his
wife. How did the prisoner treat this woman?"
"An' how should he
trate her?"
"Did he support her?"
"An' why should he,
with her havin' two hands av her own?"
"Well now, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, surely you will say that it was a case
of cruel neglect on the part of the prisoner that he should leave
her to care for herself and her children, a stranger in a strange
land."
"Indade, it's not fer
me to be runnin' down the counthry,"
exclaimed Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "Sure, it's a good land, an' a foine
counthry it is to make a livin' in," she continued with a glow of
enthusiasm, "an' it's mesilf that knows it."
"Oh, the country is all
right," said Mr. Staunton impatiently; "but
did not this man abandon his wife?"
"An' if he's the man ye
think he is wudn't she be the better quit
av him?"
The lawyer had reached
the limit of his patience.
"Well, well, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, we will leave the wife alone. But
what of his treatment of the children?"
"The childer?"
exclaimed Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "the childer, is it?
Man dear, but he's the thrue gintleman an' the tinder-hearted
father fer his childer, an' so he is."
"Oh, indeed, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick. I am sure we shall all be delighted
to hear this. But you certainly have strange views of a father's
duty toward his children. Now will you tell the court upon what
ground you would extol his parental virtues?"
"Faix, it's niver a
word I've said about his parental virtues, or
any other kind o' virtues. I was talkin' about his childer."
"Well, then, perhaps
you would be kind enough to tell the court
what reason you have for approving his treatment of his children?"
Mrs. Fitzpatrick's
opportunity had arrived. She heaved a great
sigh, and with some deliberation began.
"Och! thin, an' it's
just terrible heart-rendin' an' so it is. An'
it's mesilf that can shpake, havin' tin av me own, forby three
that's dead an' gone, God rest their sowls! an' four that's
married, an' the rest all doin' well fer thimsilves. Indade, it's
mesilf that has the harrt fer the childer. You will be havin'
childer av yer own," she added confidentially to the lawyer.
A shout of laughter
filled the court room, for Staunton was a
confirmed and notorious old bachelor.
"I have the bad
fortune, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, to be a bachelor," he
replied, red to the ears.
"Man dear, but it's
hard upon yez, but it's Hivin's mercy fer yer
wife."
The laughter that
followed could with difficulty be suppressed by
the court crier.
"Go on, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, go on with your tale," said Staunton, who
had frankly joined in the laugh against himself.
"I will that," said
Mrs. Fitzpatrick with emphasis. "Where was I?
The man an' his childer. Sure, I'll tell Yer 'Anner." Here she
turned to the judge. "Fer he," with a jerk of her thumb towards
the lawyer, "knows nothin' about the business at all, at all. It
was wan night he came to me house askin' to see his childer. The
night o' the dance, Yer 'Anner. As I was sayin', he came to me
house where the childer was, askin' to see thim, an' him without a
look o' thim fer years. An' did they know him?" Mrs. Fitzpatrick's
voice took a tragic tone. "Not a hair av thim. Not at the first.
Ah, but it was the harrt-rendin' scene, with not a house nor a home
fer him to come till, an' him sendin' the money ivery month to pay
fer it. But where it's gone, it's not fer me to say. There's some
in this room" (here she regarded Rosenblatt with a steady eye),
"might know more about that money an' what happened till it, than
they know about Hivin. Ah, but as I was sayin', it wud melt the
harrt av a Kerry steer, that's first cousin to the goats on the
hills fer wildness, to see the way he tuk thim an' held thim, an'
wailed over thim, the tinder harrt av him! Fer only wan small hour
or two could he shtay wid thim, an' then aff to that haythen
counthry agin that gave him birth. An' the way he suffered fer that
same, poor dear! An' the beautiful wife he lost! Hivin be kind to
her! Not her," following the judge's glance toward Paulina, "but an
angel that need niver feel shame to shtand befure the blissid
Payther himsilf, wid the blue eyes an' the golden hair in the picter
he carries nixt his harrt, the saints have pity on him! An' how he
suffered fer the good cause! Och hone! it breaks me harrt!" Here
Mrs. Fitzpatrick paused to wipe away her tears.
"But, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick," interrupted Mr. Staunton, "this is all
very fine, but what has this to do--"
"Tut! man, isn't it
that same I'm tellin' ye?" And on she went,
going back to the scene she had witnessed in her own room between
Kalmar and his children, and describing the various dramatis
personae and the torrential emotions that had swept their hearts
in that scene of final parting between father and children.
Again and again
Staunton sought to stay her eloquence, but with a
majestic wave of her hand she swept him aside, and with a wealth of
metaphor and an unbroken flow of passionate, tear-bedewed rhetoric
that Staunton himself might well envy, she held the court under her
sway. Many of the women present were overcome with emotion.
O'Hara openly wiped away his tears, keeping an anxious eye the
while upon the witness and waiting the psychological moment for the
arresting of her tale.
The moment came when
Mrs. Fitzpatrick's emotions rendered her
speechless. With a great show of sympathy, Mr. O'Hara approached
the witness, and offering her a glass of water, found opportunity
to whisper, "Not another word, on your soul."
"Surely," he said,
appealing to the judge in a voice trembling with
indignant feeling, "my learned friend will not further harass this
witness."
"Let her go, in
Heaven's name," said Staunton testily; "we want no
more of her."
"So I should suppose,"
replied O'Hara drily.
With Mrs. Fitzpatrick,
the case for the Crown was closed. To the
surprise of all, and especially of the Counsel for the Crown,
O'Hara called no witnesses and offered no evidence in rebuttal of
that before the court. This made it necessary for Staunton to go
on at once with his final address to the jury.
Seldom in all his
experience had he appeared to such poor advantage
as on that day. The court was still breathing the atmosphere of
Mrs. Fitzpatrick's rude and impassioned appeal. The lawyer was
still feeling the sting of his humiliating failure with his star
witness, and O'Hara's unexpected move surprised and flustered him,
old hand as he was. With halting words and without his usual
assurance, he reviewed the evidence and asked for a conviction on
both charges.
With O'Hara it was
quite otherwise. It was in just such a
desperate situation that he was at his best. The plight of the
prisoner, lonely, beaten and defenceless, appealed to his chivalry.
Then, too, O'Hara, by blood and tradition, was a revolutionist.
In every "rising" during the last two hundred years of Ireland's
struggles, some of his ancestors had carried a pike or trailed a
musket, and the rebel blood in him cried sympathy with the Nihilist
in his devotion to a hopeless cause. And hence the passion and the
almost tearful vehemence that he threw into his final address were
something more than professional.
With great skill he
took his cue from the evidence of the last
witness. He drew a picture of the Russian Nihilist hunted like
"a partridge on the mountains," seeking for himself and his
compatriots a home and safety in this land of liberty. With
vehement scorn he told the story of the base treachery of
Rosenblatt, "a Government spy, a thief, a debaucher of women, and
were I permitted, gentlemen, I could unfold a tale in this
connection such as would wring your hearts with grief and
indignation. But my client will not permit that the veil be drawn
from scenes that would bring shame to the honoured name he wears."
With consummate art the
lawyer turned the minds of the jury from
the element of personal vengeance in the crime committed to that of
retribution for political infidelity, till under his manipulation
the prisoner was made to appear in the role of patriot and martyr
doomed to suffer for his devotion to his cause.
"But, gentlemen, though
I might appeal to your passions, I scorn to
do so. I urge you to weigh calmly, deliberately, as cool, level-
headed Canadians, the evidence produced by the prosecution. A
crime has been committed, a most revolting crime,--one man killed,
another seriously wounded. But what is the nature of this crime?
Has it been shown either to be murder or attempted murder? You
must have noticed, gentlemen, how utterly the prosecution has
failed to establish any such charge. The suggestion of murder
comes solely from the man who has so deeply wronged and has pursued
with such deadly venom the unfortunate prisoner at the bar. This
man, after betraying the cause of freedom, after wrecking the
prisoner's home and family, after proving traitor to every trust
imposed in him, now seeks to fasten upon his victim this horrid
crime of murder. His is the sole evidence. What sort of man is
this upon whose unsupported testimony you are asked to send a
fellow human being to the scaffold? Think calmly, gentlemen, is he
such a man as you can readily believe? Is his highly coloured
story credible? Are you so gullible as to be taken in with this
melodrama? Gentlemen, I know you, I know my fellow citizens too
well to think that you will be so deceived.
"Now what are the
facts, the bare facts, the cold facts, gentlemen?
And we are here to deal with facts. Here they are. There is a
wedding. My learned friend is not interested in weddings, not
perhaps as much interested as he should be, and as such apparently,
he excites the pity of his friends."
This sally turned all
eyes towards Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and a broad
smile spread over the court.
"There is a wedding, as
I was saying. Unhappily the wedding feast,
as is too often the case with our foreign citizens, degenerates
into a drunken brawl. It is a convenient occasion for paying off
old scores. There is general melee, a scrap, in short. Suddenly
these two men come face to face, their passions inflamed. On the
one hand there is a burning sense of wrong, on the other an
unquenchable hate. For, gentlemen, remember, the man that hates
you most venomously is the man who has wronged you most deeply.
These two meet. There is a fight. When all is over, one man is
found dead, another with a wound in his breast. But who struck the
first blow? None can tell. We are absolutely without evidence
upon this point. In regard to the Polak, all that can be said is
this, that it was a most unfortunate occurrence. The attempt to
connect the prisoner with this man's death has utterly failed. In
regard to the man Rosenblatt, dismissing his absurdly tragic story,
what evidence has been brought before this court that there was any
deliberate attempt at murder? A blow was struck, but by whom? No
one knows. What was the motive? Was it in self-defence warding
off some murderous attack? No one can say. I have as much right
to believe that this was the case, as any man to believe the
contrary. Indeed, from what we know of the character of this
wretched traitor and thief, it is not hard to believe that the
attack upon this stranger would come from him."
And so O'Hara proceeded
with his most extraordinary defence.
Theory after theory he advanced, quoting instance after instance of
extraordinary killings that were discovered to be accidental or in
self-defense, till with the bewildered jury no theory explanatory
of the crime committed in the basement of Paulina's house was too
fantastic to be considered possible.
In his closing appeal
O'Hara carried the jury back to the point
from which he had set out. With tears in his voice he recounted
the scene of the parting between the prisoner and his children. He
drew a harrowing picture of the unhappy fate of wife and children
left defenceless and in poverty to become the prey of such men as
Rosenblatt. He drew a vivid picture of that age-long struggle for
freedom carried on by the down-trodden peasantry of Russia, and
closed with a tremendous appeal to them as fathers, as lovers of
liberty, as fair-minded, reasonable men to allow the prisoner the
full benefit of the many doubts gathering round the case for the
prosecution, and set him free.
It was a magnificent
effort. Never in all his career as a criminal
lawyer had O'Hara made so brilliant an attempt to lift a desperate
case from the region of despair into that of hope. The effect of
his address was plainly visible upon the jury and, indeed, upon the
whole audience in the court room.
The judge's charge did
much to clear the atmosphere, and to bring
the jury back to the cold, calm air of Canadian life and feeling;
but in the jury room the emotions and passions aroused by O'Hara's
address were kindled again, and the result reflected in no small
degree their influence.
The verdict acquitted
the prisoner of the charge of manslaughter,
but found him guilty on the count of attempted murder. The
verdict, however, was tempered with a strong recommendation to
mercy.
"Have you anything to
say?" asked the judge before pronouncing
sentence.
Kalmar, who had been
deeply impressed by the judge's manner during
his charge to the jury, searched his face a moment and then, as if
abandoning all hope of mercy, drew himself erect and in his stilted
English said: "Your Excellency, I make no petition for mercy. Let
the criminal make such a plea. I stand convicted of crime, but I
am no criminal. The traitor, the thief, the liar, the murderer,
the criminal, sits there." As he spoke the word, he swung sharply
about and stood with outstretched arm and finger pointing to
Rosenblatt. "I stand here the officer of vengeance. I have
failed. Vengeance will not fail. The day is coming when it will
strike." Then turning his face toward the group of foreigners at
the back of the room he raised his voice and in a high monotone
chanted a few sentences in the Russian tongue.
The effect was
tremendous. Every Russian could be picked out by
his staring eyes and pallid face. There was a moment's silence,
then a hissing sound as of the breath drawn sharply inward,
followed by a murmur hoarse and inhuman, not good to hear.
Rosenblatt trembled, started to his feet, vainly tried to speak.
His lips refused to frame words, and he sank back speechless.
"What the deuce was he
saying?" enquired O'Hara of the Interpreter
after the judge had pronounced his solemn sentence.
"He was putting to
them," said the Interpreter in an awed whisper,
"the Nihilist oath of death."
"By Jove! Good thing
the judge didn't understand. The bloody fool
would have spoiled all my fine work. He would have got a life term
instead of fourteen years. He's got enough, though, poor chap. I
wish to Heaven the other fellow had got it."
As the prisoner turned
with the officer to leave the dock, a wild
sobbing fell upon his ear. It was Paulina. Kalmar turned to the
judge.
"Is it permitted that I
see my children before--before I depart?"
"Certainly," said the
judge quickly. "Your wife and children and
your friends may visit you at a convenient hour to-morrow."
Kalmar bowed with grave
courtesy and walked away.
Beside the sobbing
Paulina sat the children, pale and bewildered.
"Where is my father
going?" asked the boy in Russian.
"Alas! alas! We shall
see him no more!" sobbed Paulina.
Quickly the boy's voice
rang out, shrill with grief and terror,
"Father! father! Come back!"
The prisoner, who was
just disappearing through the door, stopped,
turned about, his pale face convulsed with a sudden agony. He took
a step toward his son, who had run toward the bar after him.
"My son, be brave," he
said in a voice audible throughout the room.
"Be brave. I shall see you to-morrow."
He waved his hand
toward his son, turned again and passed out with
the officer.
Through the staring
crowd came a little lady with white hair and a
face pale and chastened into sweetness.
"Let me come with you,"
she said to Paulina, while the tears
coursed down her cheeks.
The Galician woman
understood not a word, but the touch upon her
arm, the tone in the voice, the flowing tears were a language she
could understand. Paulina raised her dull, tear-dimmed eyes, and
for a brief moment gazed into the pale face above her, then without
further word rose and, followed by her children, accompanied the
little lady from the room, the crowd making respectful way before
the pathetic group.
"Say, O'Hara, there are
still angels going about," said young Dr.
Wright, following the group with his eyes.
"Be Hivin!" replied the
tender-hearted Irishman, his eyes suddenly
dim, "there's wan annyway, and Margaret French is the first two
letters of her name." |