CHAPTER XXII

THE PEOPLE'S JURY

Benito, as he elbowed his way through a crowd which ringed the city hall that afternoon, was impressed by the terrific tight-lipped determination of those faces all about him. It was as though San Francisco had but one thought, one straight, relentless purpose--the punishment of crime by Mosaic law. The prisoners in the county jail appeared to sense this wave of retributive hatred, for they paced their cells like caged beasts.

It was truly a case of "The People vs. Stuart (alias Berdue) and Windred," charged with robbery and assault. Coleman and his Committee of Twelve were in absolute charge. They selected as judges, three popular and trusted citizens, J.R. Spence, H.R. Bowie and C.L. Ross. W.A. Jones was named the judge's clerk and J.E. Townes the whilom sheriff.

While the jury was impaneling, Brannan spoke to Benito: "Twelve good men and true; the phrase means something here. Lord, if we could have such jurymen as these in all our American courts."

Benito nodded. "They've appointed Bill Coleman as public prosecutor; that's rather a joke on Bill."

Judge Spence, who sat between his two colleagues, presiding on the bench, now spoke:

"I appoint Judge Shattuck and--er--Hall McAllister as counsel for the defendants."

There was a murmur of interest. Judge Shattuck, dignified, a trifle ponderous, came forward, spectacles in hand. He put them on, surveyed his clients with distaste, and took his place composedly at the table. Hall McAllister, dapper, young and something of a dandy, advanced with less assurance. He would have preferred the other side of the case, for he did not like running counter to the people.

Amid a stir the prisoners were led forward to the dock. Judge Spence, looking down at them over his spectacles, read the charges. "Are you guilty or not guilty?" he asked.

Windred, the younger, with a frightened glance about the court room, murmured almost inaudibly, "Not guilty." The other, in a deep and penetrating voice, began a sort of speech. It was incoherent, agonized. Benito thought it held a semblance of sincerity.

"Always, your honor," he declared, "I am mistaken for that scoundrel; that Stuart.... I am a decent man ... but what is the use? I say it's terrible...."

"Judge" Spence removed his eyeglasses and wiped them nervously; "does anyone in the courtroom recognize this man as Thomas Berdue?"

There was silence. Then a hand rose. "I do," said the voice of a waterfront merchant. "I've done business with him under that name."

Immediately there was an uproar. "A confederate," cried voices. "Put him out." A woman's voice in the background shrieked out shrilly, "Hang him, too!"

McAllister rose. "There must be order here," he said, commandingly and the tumult subsided. McAllister addressed Berdue's sponsor. "Can you bring anyone else to corroborate your testimony?"

The merchant, red and angry, cried: "It's nothing to me; hang him and be damned--if you don't want the truth. I'm not looking for trouble." He turned away but the prisoner called to him piteously. "Don't desert me. Find Jones or Murphy down at the long wharf. They'll identify me.... Hurry! Hurry! ... or they'll string me up!"

"All right," agreed the other reluctantly. He left the court room and Judge Shattuck moved a postponement of the case.

"Your honor," William Coleman now addressed the court, "this is no ordinary trial. Ten thousand people are around this courthouse. They are there because the public patience with legal decorum is exhausted; however regular and reasonable my colleague's plea might be in ordinary circumstances, I warn you that to grant it will provoke disorder."

Judge Shattuck, startled, glanced out of the window and conferred with Hall McAllister.

"I withdraw my petition," he said hurriedly. The case went on.

Witnesses who were present when the prisoners were identified by Jansen gave their testimony. There was little cross-examination, though McAllister established Jansen's incomplete recovery of his mental faculties when the men were brought before him. Coleman pointed out the striking appearance of the older prisoner; there was little chance to err he claimed in such a case. The record of James Stuart was then dwelt upon; a history black with evil doing, red with blood. The jury retired with the sinister determined faces of men who have made up their minds.

Meanwhile, outside, the crowd stood waiting, none too patiently. Now and then a messenger came to the balcony and shouted out the latest aspect of the drama being enacted inside. The word was caught up by the first auditor, passed along to right and left until the whole throng knew and speculated on each bit of information.

Adrian, caught in the outer eddies of that human maelstrom, found himself beside Juana Briones. "The jury's out," she told him. "Jury's out!" the word swept onward. Then there came a long and silent wait. Once again the messenger appeared. "Still out," he bellowed, "having trouble." "What's the matter with them?" a score of voices shouted. Presently the messenger returned. His face was angry, almost apoplectic. One could see that he was having difficulty with articulation. He waved his hands in a gesture of impotent wrath. At last he found his voice and shouted, "Disagreed. The jury's disagreed."

An uproar followed. "Hang the jury!" cried an irate voice. A rush was made for the entrance. But two hundred armed, determined men opposed the onslaught. The very magnitude of the human press defeated its own ends. Men cried aloud that they were being crushed. Women screamed.

Soon or late the defenders must have fallen. But now a strange diversion occurred. On the balcony appeared General Baker, noted as the city's greatest orator. In his rich, sonorous tones, he began a political speech. It rang even above the excited shouts of the mob. Instantly there was a pause, an almost imperceptible let-down of the tension. Those who could not see asked eagerly of others, "What's the matter now? Who's talking?"

"It's Ed Baker making a speech."

Someone laughed. A voice roared. "Rah for Ed Baker." Others took it up.

Impulsive, variable as the wind, San Francisco found a new adventure. It listened spellbound to golden eloquence, extolling the virtues of a favored candidate. Meanwhile Acting Sheriff Townes rushed his prisoners to the county jail without anyone so much as noticing their departure.

Presently three men came hurrying up and with difficulty made their way into the court room.

"Good God! Are we too late?" the leader of the trio asked, excitedly. He was the waterfront merchant who had recognized Berdue.

"Too late for the trial," returned Coleman; "it's over; the jury's dismissed. Disagreed."

"And what are they doing outside?" cried the other, "are they hanging the prisoners?"

"No, the prisoners are safe," returned Coleman, "though they had a close enough shave, I'll admit." He laid a hand upon Benito's shoulder and there came a twinkle to his eyes. "Our young friend here had an inspiration--better than a hundred muskets. He sent Ed Baker out to charm them with his tongue."

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