Chapter III: Act II: Scene I

_Scene: Office of District Attorney Salter in the courthouse._

_There is a window, partly ivy-covered, at the right, and a door at the rear communicating with the Judge’s chambers. A door at the left opens on a hallway. The rear and lefthand walls are almost covered with a legal reference library, mostly in yellow leather bindings. There are two desks, one for Salter, one for his secretary. A couple of padded chairs are placed to front the attorney’s desk. The desks are piled with stacks of letters and ’script._

_Salter, a thin, keen, and rather weary person, enters from the hall, tosses a hat on the rack, and begins to search through a mass of papers. He finds what he wants and sits at his desk._

_There is a tap at the door and Haslet enters. He is a well-dressed, middle-aged business man._

_It is after lunch._

SALTER. Oh, hello, Arthur.

HASLET. How’s our little trial coming?

SALTER. It’s all right.

HASLET. Going to convict?

SALTER. Oh, yes.—Want to let ’em off?

HASLET. I do not.

SALTER. Thought maybe somebody had changed his mind.

HASLET. Good God, man, those two Bolsheviks have raised more hell in
this town the last two years than you’d get out of a dozen reform
administrations. Every time we turn around they start something new
on us.

SALTER. Damned unpleasant.

HASLET. They’ve turned my hair grey, and they’ve cost the Northfield
company a couple of millions, one time and another.

SALTER. It’s rather hard to make it look as if they had anything to do
with the murder—

HASLET. Why is it?

SALTER. Lord, there’s no evidence.

HASLET. It looks like a pipe to me.

SALTER. I wish you had the job. And the next time the boys want to pin
something on a couple of radicals I wish you’d call in a little
expert advice before you start.

HASLET. You, for instance?

SALTER. Me, for instance. It might make it a damn sight easier.

HASLET. Not that I tried to pin anything on them. But I think it was a
damned good idea.

SALTER. Well so far as I’m concerned it’s a mess. And devilish
uncomfortable.

HASLET. How about that bomb last night?

SALTER. That helps. By the way, who set that bomb?

HASLET. How would I know? Some of their blackhand friends, I suppose.

SALTER. Oh, no. They know better than that. Even a foreigner knows
better than to set a bomb under a juryman’s front porch. Is Spiker
still working for the company?

HASLET. You think Spiker did it?

SALTER. Well, I bet he knows who did.

HASLET. It was all news to me.

SALTER. Spiker’s got it in for Macready and Capraro. He’ll do more
than he’s paid for. It wasn’t necessary at that. Not with this jury.
It’s a hundred and forty proof Shriners and Chamber of Commerce.

HASLET. What are you kicking about then?

SALTER. The way it looks, that’s all. It’s the God-damnedest flimsiest
case I ever had on my hands, yes, and the most sickening bunch of
welching witnesses I ever had to deal with. We’re going to convict
and it’s going to look like a frame-up. If I had it to do over again
I’d see Northfield and his docks and mills in hell before I’d handle
it.

HASLET. You’re nervous, Will. What’s the matter with you? Don’t you
own any stock?

SALTER. I need some evidence to show up in the newspapers. You told me
your operatives had an airtight case, and they said the same thing,
and your witnesses are trying to back out all along the line. And
who has to hold them to it? I do. It’s a rotten job. I’d like to
know how Spiker got that original bunch of affidavits. He must have
had everybody chloroformed.

HASLET. Those two Bolsheviks have got it coming. I don’t give a damn
so long as we don’t lose.

SALTER. You may wish you had, that’s all. The town’s crawling with
reporters sending in front page stuff. It’s going to make a stink
you can smell from here to Siberia.

HASLET. What does the judge think about it?

SALTER. When did a judge ever think? He’s paid not to. By the way,
this Spiker person of yours, whom I dislike intensely, was in here
this morning. He tells me the defense have a surprise witness to
spring after I get all through.

HASLET. Who is it? The girl?

SALTER. The girl’s father.

HASLET. What of it?

SALTER. Well, Spiker thinks he’s got something on the old boy, that’s
all. He’s looking up his record and if they put him on the stand he
wants to spring something. I rather wish Spiker was up for murder.
I’d take a passionate delight in railroading a crook, just for a
change.

[_Judge Vail enters from the rear; he is fastening his robe._]

HASLET. How are you, Judge?

VAIL. How are you? I’m excellent, excellent, thanks. You in court
today?

HASLET. I’ll have to get back to town—just dropped in on my way.
What’s the news?

VAIL. It’s all in the papers. They’re printing us verbatim this time.
Great honor. I wanted to ask you, Will—as things are going now, are
you likely to conclude your case today or will you require another
session?

SALTER. I’m putting on my two last witnesses this afternoon. I don’t
know what the defense will do.

VAIL. I fear it’s likely to drag on for some days.

HASLET. Are you betting on the results, Judge?

VAIL. I daresay they’ll be found guilty. And no doubt they are. No
doubt they are. I long ago gave up trying to decide who was innocent
and who was guilty. That’s the jury’s business. In this case we have
an intelligent jury. [_He goes to the door, then turns to deliver a
dry joke._] But not too intelligent—not too intelligent. [_He goes
out._]

HASLET. He’s all right.

SALTER. Yeah. He’s been dead from the neck up for twenty-five years.
And from the neck down for about forty—otherwise he’s fine.

HASLET. By the way, can we do anything for you?

SALTER. Sure, I want a steam yacht and a villa overlooking the
Mediterranean. And I’m going to need ’em when I’m through with this.
No, you big swine, run along and sell your papers. I’m
incorruptible. Anyway, you don’t need to corrupt me. I’ve got to win
this case now or retire. I just wish to God I’d never got into it.
That’s what makes me sore.

HASLET. You’re made, man, you’re made.

SALTER. I suppose you think I’ll be the next governor.

HASLET. Why not? So long, Will!

SALTER. So long, Arthur.

[_Haslet goes out left. Salter pushes a bell. A Court Attendant
enters._]

ATTENDANT. Yes, sir.

SALTER. Got that woman waiting?

ATTENDANT. Yes, sir.

SALTER. Bring her in.

[_The Attendant opens the door at the left and ushers in Mrs. Lubin, a
woman of fifty or so._]

MRS. LUBIN. Yes, Mr. Salter.

SALTER. I got your letter this morning. Sit down.

MRS. LUBIN [_sitting_]. Yes, sir.

SALTER. You say you’ve changed your mind, you aren’t sure of what you
saw and you can’t testify?

MRS. LUBIN. Yes, sir.

SALTER. Don’t you think it’s pretty late in the day to change your
mind?

MRS. LUBIN. Yes, sir—but—

SALTER. Do you remember what you said in your affidavit? [_He taps the
paper in his hand._] You said you were standing at the front window
of your apartment at four-fifteen on the afternoon of April second
and you saw Macready shoot Kendall from the front seat of a Buick
touring car. That’s pretty definite, isn’t it? You swore to that,
didn’t you?

MRS. LUBIN. Yes, sir—but—he was the only man in the room.

SALTER. Who was?

MRS. LUBIN. Macready. When I identified him.

SALTER. Well, what of it? You identified him, didn’t you? You don’t
deny that?

MRS. LUBIN. They told me I had to.

SALTER. Who did?

MRS. LUBIN. The men. The detectives.

SALTER. Now, you’re going to forget about this letter, you understand?
You’re going to forget about all that and testify to the story you
told in your affidavit.

MRS. LUBIN. Mr. Salter, I really couldn’t identify him. I was too far
away. And I’ve—Mr. Salter, I’ve been looking from that
window,—and—I—couldn’t have seen the shooting at all. I heard the
shot, but I couldn’t see where it was. And—Mr. Gluckstein knows
that—

SALTER. How does he know?

MRS. LUBIN. He came to the apartment.

SALTER. So you’ve been talking to the defense?

MRS. LUBIN. I didn’t know who he was then. He came and asked if he
could look out the window, and he asked me where the shooting was.
I’d said the shooting was on the other side of the track, and you
can’t see the street there because there’s a railroad tower in the
way—and anyway—

SALTER. When you made this statement did you know you couldn’t see
that part of the street from your window?

MRS. LUBIN. No, sir. I thought I could. I didn’t really see the
shooting. I looked out after I heard the shot.

SALTER. Now get this straight, Mrs. Lubin. You’re not conducting this
prosecution. I’ll take care of any little discrepancies between what
you saw and what you couldn’t see. I want only one thing of you and
that one thing I’m going to get. I want you to tell your story on
the stand exactly as you told it before the magistrate.

MRS. LUBIN. I tell you I can’t.

SALTER. You’ll find you can. Tell me, Mrs. Lubin, why did you swear to
this in the first place? Do you remember?

MRS. LUBIN. They told me I had to.

SALTER. Was there any special reason why you had to?

MRS. LUBIN. No.

SALTER. I have your record here, Mrs. Lubin. You have a grown son
up-state, haven’t you?

MRS. LUBIN. Yes, sir.

SALTER. Does your son know that in 1915 you conducted a certain type
of house at 54 Charles Street?

MRS. LUBIN. Oh, God, are you going over that again?

SALTER. Not unless I have to. There are a good many things in this
paper which have never come to the ears of your son. Shall I read it
to you?

MRS. LUBIN [_hopelessly_]. No.

SALTER. Very well. We’ll forget that. I think you’ve failed to realize
the extent to which the state is interested in this case, and also
the extent to which the state is interested in you. You are a
citizen of this country, Mrs. Lubin. Do you believe in the
constitution?

MRS. LUBIN. Yes.

SALTER. Do you reverence the flag?

MRS. LUBIN. Yes.

SALTER. Then why do you change your testimony to shield anarchists?
You’ll find that very hard to explain, Mrs. Lubin.

MRS. LUBIN. I don’t—I—

SALTER. Perhaps you are yourself an anarchist, Mrs. Lubin. Perhaps you
have been bought off by the defense.

MRS. LUBIN. I’m not being paid—

SALTER. I don’t say you are. I’m just saying it might look that way.
To a jury. The question is, would a jury believe you? It looks like
perjury, and if it came to a perjury trial how much of your past
would you be able to conceal from your son?

MRS. LUBIN [_deciding_]. Very well.

SALTER. I give you my word, Mrs. Lubin, it is your duty as a citizen
to stick to your story.

MRS. LUBIN. Very well, I will.

SALTER. Exactly as in the affidavit?

MRS. LUBIN. Yes, sir. Is that all?

SALTER. That’s all.

[_Mrs. Lubin goes out. The Attendant appears._]

ATTENDANT. Bartlet’s here, sir.

SALTER. Bartlet?

ATTENDANT. Yes, sir.

SALTER. Send him in. [_The Attendant ushers in Bartlet, a youth of
eighteen with a sodden face. He slumps in a chair._] Well, sir, what
have you got to say to me?

BARTLET. Me? They said you wanted to see me.

SALTER. Stand up! When I want you to sit down I’ll tell you.

[_Bartlet rises._]

BARTLET. All right.

SALTER. I’ve heard about you. You couldn’t wait to get to court to
give your testimony. You had to spread yourself all over town. Tell
me what you’ve been saying.

BARTLET. What I’ve been saying?

SALTER. You heard me.

BARTLET. I haven’t been saying much.

SALTER. Don’t lie to me! Sit down! [_Bartlet sits._] Did you identify
Capraro?

BARTLET. Well—I—

SALTER. Did you identify Capraro?

BARTLET. What if I did? I guess I was—I guess I was mistaken.

SALTER. Listen to me, Bartlet. When you start swearing to evidence
there’s only one safe thing to do—and that’s tell one story and
stick to it. Now you’ve told your story and if you stick to it
you’ll be protected—

BARTLET. Yeah, but—

SALTER. But you start talking in court the way you’ve been talking
down at the mill and you’re going to talk yourself into enough
trouble to make you look sick the rest of your life. You said last
spring that Capraro looked like the man you saw in the car—

BARTLET. Yeah, but I couldn’t say it was him—

SALTER. You don’t have to say it was him. I wouldn’t want you to.
You’ll say it was the dead image of him. Can you remember that? The
dead image of him.

BARTLET. Maybe that wouldn’t be right.

SALTER. It’s true, isn’t it? It looked like Capraro. All right, say
that.

BARTLET. It looked like Capraro, all right.

SALTER. Certainly it did. It was the dead image of him. And mind you,
that doesn’t mean it was Capraro. That means it looked like him. Can
you remember that?

BARTLET. Yeah, I guess that’d be all right.

SALTER. Can you remember it?

BARTLET. The dead image of him, sure.

SALTER. And if you aren’t going to stay with it you’d better tell me
now.

BARTLET. All right.

SALTER [_changing tone_]. You know, Bartlet, there’s a good many of us
taking an interest in you around here. Some of us haven’t been quite
sure whether you’d turn yellow or come through like a man. It isn’t
as if these birds weren’t guilty, you know. We know they’re guilty.
Why, damn it, they believe in murder. It’s part of their platform.
Do you know why you thought Capraro looked like the man in the car?

BARTLET. No.

SALTER. Well, I’ll tell you. Because he was the man in the car. Talk
about the dead image of him! It was Capraro!

BARTLET. Yes, sir, it was the dead image of him.

SALTER [_under his breath_]. Jesus Christ! [_He goes back to his
desk._] All right, Bartlet. You’ll be called this afternoon. And
we’re depending on you.

BARTLET. Yes, sir. [_He goes out._]

[_There is a knock at the door._]

SALTER. Come in. [_Gluckstein enters._] Why, hello, Gluckie. How’s the
Soviet today?

GLUCKSTEIN. Pretty well, thanks. How’s the White Guard?

SALTER. A bit shaky, but game.

GLUCKSTEIN. Listen, Salter—just man to man, now—you know my boys
aren’t guilty, don’t you?

SALTER. You’re a man of high principles, Gluckie, if they weren’t
innocent you wouldn’t defend ’em—not for a minute.

GLUCKSTEIN. But seriously now, Salter. I don’t mind telling you I’m
worried. I know you haven’t any case. I know you haven’t any
evidence. I know the boys aren’t guilty. I know the case looks as if
it was going against you. But if you keep on playing up the
Bolshevik business to that jury—why, it’s plain murder. You tell
that jury a man’s a radical and the whole twelve will vote to hang
him. And do you think they’re guilty?

SALTER. That’s what we’re here to find out, friend. That’s what the
jury’s for.

GLUCKSTEIN. Well—maybe it’s too much to ask.

SALTER. I guess it is.

GLUCKSTEIN. You wouldn’t consider playing the game fair?

SALTER. Old man, I’m a District Attorney. I’m paid to play the game.
I’m supposed to win if I can.

GLUCKSTEIN. Well, but, for God’s sake, have a little decency about it.
That bomb last night, for instance.—That’s dirty, you know.

SALTER. Your clients have amusing little friends.

GLUCKSTEIN. _My_ clients!

SALTER. You don’t think we’d do that—?

GLUCKSTEIN. Well—

SALTER. Well, God knows I don’t know. Why the foreman of a jury should
hitch a bomb under his front porch. It’s just my good luck, that’s
all.

GLUCKSTEIN. And why are my witnesses shadowed, Salter? And why am I
shadowed?

SALTER. I don’t know about the witnesses.

GLUCKSTEIN. Then how about me? Is it fair to put plain-clothes men on
my trail?

SALTER. You mean you’ve been followed?

GLUCKSTEIN. You know I have.

SALTER. Gluckie, you’ve been followed by nothing but your own bad
conscience. You mean you’ve had detectives following my detectives?
Gluckie, that isn’t right!

GLUCKSTEIN. I know the men and I know who pays them.

SALTER. It’s none of my doing, Gluckie. I’ll tell you the truth about
that, though. Somebody was tipped off by somebody that there was a
woman somewhere in your spotless young life. That’s all.

GLUCKSTEIN. But that’s—that’s contemptible.

SALTER. Certainly it is. I wouldn’t use anything of the sort. But as a
matter of fact I’d advise you to watch your step, Gluckie. Not all
the members of my club are men of conscience, like me.

GLUCKSTEIN. I see.

SALTER. Then there’s something in it?

GLUCKSTEIN. No.

SALTER. No? Well—it might be better on the whole if you didn’t win the
case, you see? That is, as far as you’re concerned personally.

GLUCKSTEIN. That’s blackmail, isn’t it?

SALTER. Well, not legally. And you have nothing to worry about,
anyway. Because I don’t think you can win, Gluckie. I don’t think
you’ve got a chance in the world. I almost wish you had. That’s
straight.

GLUCKSTEIN. Well—we’ll see.

SALTER. Sure, we’ll see.

[_Gluckstein goes out. Salter goes wearily to the telephone, takes it
up, thinks a minute, then takes the receiver off the hook._] Get me
Spiker, will you? Hello, hello! Hello, Spiker—say, listen, Spiker,
this is Salter. Wait a minute, listen to me. You’re a low-down crook
and I hate your guts and I could win this case without you, do you
get that? All right, many of them—but if you want that guy Henry in
court when the old man testifies you’d better bring him along this
afternoon, just to make sure. Yeah? Well, now listen to me some
more. I think you’re all set to queer this case with your
under-cover stuff. If this is Department of Justice information it’s
probably crooked and it’s probably dirty, because I’ve played with
them before. [_A silence._] Well, damn it, when do I get my data?
I’ve got to talk, you know. I’m no moving picture. All right. Have
him up near the stand. Well, you can explain it to him, can’t you?
If he used to be a sheriff he ought to know that much. [_The
Attendant enters._] I haven’t got time. The session starts at one.

ATTENDANT. Are you ready, Mr. Salter?

SALTER [_in the phone_]. Yeah, I think they will. I don’t know whether
he knows it or not. Oh, it’s a pleasure, a pleasure! [_He hangs
up._] No brains, that’s all, no brains. [_He picks up his manuscript
and makes for the door._]

CURTAIN