A MODERN PURGATORY THE TRIAL

It is the second day of my trial. The whole performance is tiresome and monotonous in the extreme. On one side—the side of the prosecution, the side against me—the case is legally perfect, on my side there is practically no defense; and surrounded as I am by powerful and subtle political influences, I have come to the conclusion that I have as much chance of success—or escape—as the proverbial snowball in Hades.

Considering my hopeless predicament and my helplessness, I am astonished at the sneering and insulting manner of the prosecuting attorney. Why this unseemly desire[Pg 2] to swat as insignificant a gnat as I?[1] During lunch at recess I hear that my victim and accuser is very much embarrassed and annoyed at the pertinent questions asked by the prosecutor and translated by an interpreter.

"Are you a picaroon?" queried the District Attorney.

"No," protested the blushing Mexican, "I am only a congressman."

Insults are sometimes the making of a man's reputation, but ridicule always kills, as my Mexican opponent confessed to me once in Mexico City, adding that he never paid the slightest attention to insults or libelous attacks of the Mexican press. In this case they made him change his mind and he was sent twice three thousand miles from Mexico to prosecute as libel that which he could not even read.

[Pg 3]

Finally the case is concluded and I am led through a maze into the Tombs prison to await the deliberation of the jury.

The keepers inquire as to the real meaning and equivalent in slang of the word "picaroon," and they seem disappointed at its commonplace meaning as compared to the phonetic redundance of a word which promised so much. All seem quite certain the jury won't convict, but I am of a different opinion.

After waiting more than two hours I am brought back to court to hear the decision of the jury. I notice the foreman, a gray-haired, lean person with a long neck two sizes smaller than his collar. He is speaking in a low voice. I cannot hear what he says, but when he stops, and I see two Mexican friends and refugees come towards me with tears in their eyes, then I know my fate. They pat me on the back and say encouraging things as to the effect the publicity of this conviction will have on the cause of [Pg 4]liberal Mexico. Newspapermen and friends surround me. An adverse verdict was expected; nevertheless I am somewhat dazed. They ask for a declaration, but adequate words fail me. I can only smile and say awkwardly: "It's all in the day's work. I believe what is to be, will be." And the keepers lead me through the bridge of sighs.
FOOTNOTE:

[1] In justice to the Prosecuting Attorney it must be added that over two years after the trial he apologized to the writer in the presence of Judge John J. Freschi, at the Press Club.