“There’s not a possibility that they could return a verdict of guilty, is there?” she inquired in a carefully detached voice.
“Oh, juries!” said the redheaded girl drearily. “They can do anything. They’re just plain, average, everyday, walking-around people, and average, everyday people can do anything in the world. That’s why we have murders and murder trials.”
The girl from the Louisville paper stood up abruptly. “I think I’ll get a little air,” she said, and added in a somewhat apologetic voice, “It’s my first murder trial.”
“It’s my last,” said the redheaded girl grimly.
The officer of the court had disappeared, and all about her there were rising once more the little blue coils of smoke—incense on the altars of relaxation. Why didn’t he come back? … The clock over the courtroom door said five.
On the courtroom floor there was a mounting tide of newspapers, telegraph blanks, leaves from notebooks and ruled pads—many nervous hands had made light work, tearing, crumpling, and crushing their destructive way through the implements of their trade. There was an empty pop bottle just by the rail, apple cores and banana skins were everywhere, clouds of smoke, fragments of buns, a high, nervous murmur of voices; a picnic ground on the fifth of July would have presented a more appetising appearance. Over all was a steady roar of voices, and one higher than the rest, lamenting: “Over two hours—that’s a hung jury as sure as shooting! I might just as well kiss that ten dollars goodbye here and now. Got a light, Larry?”
The door to the left of the witness box opened abruptly, and for a moment Judge Carver stood framed in it, tall and stern in his black robes. Under his accusing eye, apples and cigarettes were suddenly as unobtrusive as the skin on a chameleon, and voices fell to silence. He stood staring at them fixedly for a moment and then withdrew as abruptly as he had come. While you could have counted ten, silence hung heavy; then once more the smoke and the voices rose and fell. … The clock over the courtroom door said six.
The redheaded girl moved an aimless pencil across an empty pad with unsteady fingers. There were quite a lot of empty seats. What were those twelve men doing now? Weighing the evidence? Well, but how did you weigh evidence? What was important and what wasn’t? … And suddenly she was back in the only courtroom that she could remember clearly—the one in Alice in Wonderland, and the King was saying proudly, “Well, that’s very important.” “Unimportant, Your Majesty means.” And she could hear the poor little King trying it over to himself to see which sounded the best. “Important—unimportant—important—” There was the lamp—and the date on the letters—and the note that nobody had found—unimportant—important. … There was a juryman called Bill the Lizard. She remembered that he had dipped his tail in ink and had written down all the hours and dates in the case on his slate, industriously adding them up and reducing the grand total to pounds, shillings, and pence. Perhaps that was the safest way, after all.
, and . … A boy came running down the aisle with a basketful of sandwiches and chewing gum; there was another one with pink editions of the evening papers; it was exactly like a ball game or a circus. … Where was he? Wasn’t he coming back at all? … Outside the snow was falling; you could see it white against the black windowpanes, and all the lights in the courtroom were blazing. … Well, but where was he?
A voice from somewhere just behind her said ominously, “Can’t bear me, can’t she? I’ll learn her!”
The redheaded girl screwed around in her seat. He was leaning over the back of the chair next to her with a curious expression on his not unagreeable countenance.
The redheaded girl said in a small, abject voice that shocked her profoundly, “Don’t go away—don’t go away again.”
The reporter, looking startlingly pale under the glaring lights, remarked casually, “I don’t believe that I’ll marry you after all.”
The redheaded girl could feel herself go first very white and then very red and then very white again. She could hear her heart pounding just behind her ears. In a voice even more casual than the reporter’s she inquired, “After all what?”
“After all your nonsense,” said the reporter severely.
The redheaded girl said in a voice so small and abject that it was practically inaudible, “Please do!”
“What are we doing in here?” inquired the reporter in a loud clear voice. “What are we doing in a courtroom at a murder trial, with two hundred and fifty-four people watching us? Where’s a beach? Where’s an apple orchard? Where’s a moonlit garden with a nightingale? You get up and put your things on and come out of this place.”
The redheaded girl rose docilely to her feet. After all, what were they doing there? What was a murder trial or verdict or a newspaper story compared to—She halted, riveted with amazement.
Suddenly, mysteriously, incredibly, the courtroom was all in motion. No one had crossed a threshold, no one had raised a voice; but as surely as though they had been tossed out of their seats by some gigantic hand, the crowd was in flight. One stampede toward the door from the occupants of the seats, another stampede from the occupants of the seats toward the door, a hundred voices calling, regardless of law and order.
“Keep that phone line open!”
“They’re coming!”
“Dorothy! Dorothy!”
“Have Stan take the board!”
“Where’s Larry? Larry!”
“Get Red—get Red, for God’s sake!”
“That’s my chair—snap out of it, will you?”
“Watch for that flash—Bill’s going to signal.”
“Dorothy!”
“Get to that door!”
And silence as sudden as the tumult. Through the left-hand door were coming two quiet, familiar figures, and through the right-hand door
