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THE LIGHT THAT LIES
The McClure Publications. Inc.
The Dodd Mead And Company, Inc.
Then they drew him for Special Sessions and eventually for the humiliating lower courts, the result being that his resourcefulness was under a constant and ever increasing strain. Where once he had experienced a rather pleasing interest in "getting off" in important cases, he now found himself very hard put to escape service in the most trifling of criminal trials.
He began to complain bitterly of the injustice to himself, an honest, upright citizen who was obliged to live in a constant state of apprehension. He felt like a hunted animal. He was no sooner safely out of one case when he was called for another.
He was above trying to "fix" any one. Other men, he knew, had some one downtown who could get them off with a word to the proper person, and others were of sufficient importance politically to make it impossible for them to be in contempt of court. That's what he called "fixing things."
Shortly after the holidays he was served with a notice to appear and be examined as to his fitness to serve as juror in the case of the State vs. James W. Hildebrand. Now, he had made all his arrangements for a trip to California. In fact, he planned to leave New York on the twenty-first of January, and here he was being called into court on the twentieth. Something told him that the presiding justice was sure to be one of those who had witnessed one or more of his escapes from service on previous occasions, and that the honourable gentleman in the long black gown would smile sadly and shake his head if he protested that he was obliged to get off because he had to go to California for his health. The stupidest judge on earth would know at a glance that Sampson didn't have to go anywhere for his health. He really had more of it than was good for him.
If he hadn't been so healthy he might have relished an occasional fortnight of indolence in a drowsy, stuffy, little court-room with absolutely nothing to do but to look at the clock and wonder, with the rest of the jurors, how on earth the judge contrived to wake up from a sound sleep whenever a point came up for decision and always to settle it so firmly, so confidently, so promptly that even the lawyers were fooled into believing that he had been awake all the time.
Sampson entered the little court-room at 9:50 o'clock on the morning of the twentieth.
He was never to forget the morning of the twentieth.
Fifteen or twenty uneasy, sour-faced men, of all ages, sizes and condition sat outside the railing, trying to look unconcerned. They couldn't fool him. He knew what they were and he knew that in the soul of each lurked the selfish, cruel prayer that twelve men would be snatched from among them and stuffed into the jury box to stay before the clerk could draw his own dreaded name from the little box at his elbow.
The hour hand on the clock said ten o'clock, but everybody was watching the minute hand. It had to touch twelve before anything, could happen. Then the judge would steal out of his lair and mount the bench, while every one stood and listened to the unintelligible barking of the attendant who began with something that sounded suspiciously like "Oy-yoy!" notwithstanding the fact that he was an Irish and not a Jewish comedian.
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