They will allow no one to see me; that is, none of my friends, but curious officials come in on imaginary errands to look me over. The jury returned some time ago; they have now deliberated for five hours. Evidently some one is holding out. Having done so for this length of time, it looks like a disagreement; unless some one changes his mind. Why should a juror change his mind? He has sworn to go by the evidence. Do the opinions of his companions change the evidence?
I wish that there was no jury system. Having five judges to preside would be much better. They would go by facts, their ears would not be tickled by mere eloquence; experience would teach them when witnesses were lying. And, best of all, five judges would know the real value of expert testimony; yes, they would know that, for they would hear the official experts expounding one theory to-day, have heard its opposite yesterday, and will hear the repudiation of both to-morrow.
They brought me sandwiches and a cup of coffee. While disposing of them I talked to my friends the keepers, telling them about my experiences in the cattle business so long ago and so far away. They paid me the pretty compliment of saying that I take matters more coolly than any one they had ever seen; that I show no emotion—I knew they were watching for it. Am I confident? No, I am not. Strange to say, I am becoming indifferent. After all, what does it matter so far as I am concerned?
Like the stag making his last stand and being torn by the hounds, better die than escape wounded to suffer more; better have it over and done with. And as for my home, my family—stop that!
The refinement of cruelty. I have been taken into the court-room twice; each time with exposed nerves which are scraped and singed by the questions the jury has come in to ask, and the answers which push me nearer to the edge of the precipice. Each time I have gone prepared for the end. It is interesting, but not amusing. I saw my father last at two o’clock, seven hours ago. He has grown seven years older since then. My brother is in court. He is four years my senior; he looks an old man—I wonder how I look. My attorneys are very serious as they whisper together.
Three months I have been on trial; twice a day I have been taken into court—morning and afternoon. The signal which summons me is made by rapping a key on the iron door. This is symbolic—key and door. Which way will the key turn? Will the door open or close for me? I feel that the next summons will answer these questions. They are rapping the key on the door.