‘She will be shackled to a deputy like a slave-girl of ancient times, to be placed on the block of Justice and sold to the higher bidder — the State of New Jersey in the person of Paul Pollinger, prosecutor of Mercer County, or her devoted and brilliant brother, William Angell of Philadelphia, who is directing her defense.
‘It will be for a jury of her peers to decide whether it was Lucy Wilson, young Philadelphia housewife, who thrust the keen point of a paper-cutter into her husband’s heart, or another woman. It is the opinion of many that Lucy Wilson must be judged by a jury who are truly her peers, or justice will not be done.
‘For it is not Lucy Wilson who is on trial for her life, it is Society. Society, which makes it possible for a man of wealth and position to marry a poor girl of the lower classes in another city under a false name, take ten of the most precious years of her life, and then — when it is too late — decide to tell the truth and confess his hideous sin to her. Society, which makes it possible for such a man to commit bigamy, to have a poor wife in Philadelphia and a rich one in New York, to spend his time calmly between the two wives and the two cities like a commuter. Innocent or guilty, Lucy Wilson is the real victim, not the man who lies buried in a Philadelphia cemetery under the name of Joseph Wilson, not the heiress of millions who took his real name of Gimball in vain at St Andrew’s Cathedral in New York in 1927. Will Society protect Lucy from itself? Will Society make amends for the ten years it took from her life? Will Society see that the crafty forces of wealth and social power do not crush her beneath their cruel heels? These are the questions which Trenton, Philadelphia, New York, the whole nation are asking themselves today.’
Bill Angell grasped the edge of the jury box with such vehemence that his knuckles whitened. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the law gives to the defense the same privilege of announcing in advance and in general terms what it will prove as it gives to the prosecution. You have just heard the prosecutor of your county. I shall not take so long. My learned friend the prosecutor, His Honor the Judge, can tell you that in most instances in trials for murder the defense waives its right to address the jury in advance, because in most instances the defense has something to conceal or must build its case out of the ragged remnants of the prosecution’s case. But this defense has nothing to conceal. This defense addresses you out of a full heart, confident that justice can be done in Mercer County and that justice will be done in Mercer County.
“I have merely this to say. I ask you to forget that I am the brother of this defendant, Lucy Angell Wilson. I ask you to forget that Lucy is a beautiful woman in the prime of her life. I ask you to forget that Joseph Wilson did her the cruelest wrong in the power of any man. I ask you to forget that he was really Joseph Kent Gimball, a man of millions, and that she is Lucy Wilson, a poor loyal woman who comes from just such a walk of life as your worthy selves. I ask you to forget that during the ten peaceful years of their married life, Lucy Wilson did not derive a single penny’s worth of benefit from Joseph Kent Gimball’s millions.
“I would not ask you to forget these things if for the space of a single instant I entertained the most minute doubt of Lucy Wilson’s innocence. If I thought she were guilty I would emphasize these things, play upon your sympathies. But I do not think so. I know Lucy Wilson is not guilty of this crime. And before I am finished, you will know that Lucy Wilson is not guilty of this crime.
“I ask you to remember only that murder is the most serious charge which a civilized State can level against any individual. And, because this is so, I ask you to keep in mind during every moment of this trial that the State must prove Lucy Wilson a red-handed murderess beyond the last faint shadow of a reasonable doubt. His Honor will no doubt charge you that in a circumstantial case, such as this, the State must prove, step by step, without the slightest gap, the movements of the defendant until the very moment of the commission of the crime. There must be no gaps left to guess-work. That is the law of circumstantial evidence, and you must be guided by it. And remember, too, that the burden of proof is wholly upon the State. His Honor will instruct you in this.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Lucy Wilson asks you to keep this principle constantly in mind. Lucy Wilson wants justice. Her fate lies in your hands. It lies in good hands.”
“I,” said Ella Amity, “want a drink of whatever is in that bottle.”
Ellery did things with cracked ice, soda, and Irish whisky, and passed the red-haired young woman the result. Bill Angell, his coat off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, shook his head and went to the window of Ellery’s room. The window was open wide; the Trenton night outside was hot and noisy and as turbulent as a carnival.
“Well,” said Ellery, regarding Bill’s silent back, “what do you think?”
“I’ll tell you what I think,” said Ella, crossing her legs and setting down the glass. “I think there’s a large black gentleman in the woodpile here.”
Bill turned sharply. “What makes you say that, Ella?”
The uppermost leg swung in an impatient arc. “Look here, Bill Angell. I know this town and you don’t. Do you think Pollinger’s a complete fool? Give me a butt, somebody.”
Ellery obeyed. “I’m inclined to agree with the press, Bill. Pollinger wasn’t born yesterday.”
Bill frowned. “I’ll admit the man struck me as capable enough. But, damn it all, the facts are there! He simply can’t have anything important which he hasn’t disclosed.”
Ella snuggled deeper into the Stacy-Trent armchair. “Listen to me, you idiot. Paul Pollinger has one of the keenest minds in this State. He was weaned on a lawbook. He knows old Judge Menander the way I know the facts of life. And he’s an expert on juries in this county. Do you think a prosecutor like that would pull such a boner? I’m telling you, Bill — watch your step.”
Bill flushed angrily. “All right, all right. Will you kindly tell me what I can expect this magicián to pull out of his hat? I know this case like the palm of my own hand. Pollinger’s been misled by his own eagerness to get a conviction in a sensational case. It’s been done before, and it always will be.”
“You feel, then,” asked Ellery, “that there’s no chance for a conviction?”
“Not a chance in the world. I tell you this case won’t even go to the jury. The law’s the law in Jersey as anywhere else. When Pollinger rests the State I’ll make the usual motion for dismissal, and I’ll bet you every cent I’ve got that Menander throws the case out then and there.”
The newspaperwoman sighed. “You poor, poor egomaniac. Maybe that’s why I’m wasting all this time and energy on you. Confidence! I adore you, Bill, but there’s a limit even to my patience. You’re playing around with your sister’s life. How the devil can you be so cocksure of yourself?”
Bill stared out the window again. “I’ll tell you,” he said at last. “Neither of you is a lawyer and so you can’t see my point. All you can see is the usual layman’s misconception of circumstantial evidence.”
“It sounds pretty strong to me.”
“It’s weak as hell. What has Pollinger got? A dying declaration, which unfortunately I myself was responsible for bringing to light. This declaration, admittedly made by the victim in the full knowledge that he was dying — an important point legally — accused a veiled woman of stabbing him. He has the treads of the tires of a Ford car in the dirt before the scene of the crime. I’ll even grant for the sake of argument that he can make out a positive expert’s identification of Lucy’s Ford as the one which made those tire marks. So what? Her car was used by the criminal. In her car was found a veil — not even hers; I know it isn’t hers, because she’s never worn or had a veil. So he can’t possibly prove it’s hers. He has, then, her car used by the criminal, who was a veiled woman. Possibly he has someone who can testify to seeing this veiled woman in the Ford near the scene of the crime. But whoever the witness is, he can’t conceivably identify Lucy as the woman in the Ford. Even if he lies, or testifies to a positive identification under a mistaken impression, it will be child’s play to break down his credibility. The mere fact that a veil was worn makes positive identification in the legal sense an incredibility.”