“Before that Higher Court I shall have no fear of a possible verdict of guilty, for there only the truth shall be known. I am not afraid of the truth. Nor am I afraid of that same truth in this Court, but only of its being undiscovered or misunderstood.
“I cannot know what impression has been made upon your minds by the testimony to which you have listened. Being men of common sense and actuated by emotions common to all of us, I cannot see how, at this time, you can be anything but most violently prejudiced against me. Everything, so far, has been conceived, planned and presented with the sole idea of creating such a prejudice in your minds.
“Understand me clearly — I am not criticizing or blaming the prosecuting attorney for anything he has done or said here in this courtroom. Both you and I must presume that he is an honorable man, and performing his sworn duty as he sees that duty. We have heard no word or evidence to the contrary. He, we should have every reason to suppose, honestly and impartially believes me guilty of the crime of murder as charged. If that were not so he could not, as an upright man and a trusted officer of the law, have brought that charge against me. If he did not so believe in my guilt ‘to the exclusion of every other reasonable hypothesis’ any reputable attorney, any decent man, would have refused to conduct this case on behalf, and in the name, of the people whose public servant he is.
“I have, as I said, been placed before you in the most unfavorable light possible. I have been made to appear as a being less than human and more brutish than the brutes. I have been painted in colors that would make a wolf blush and a hyena hide his head in shame, that would cause a snake to shun my society and a tiger to shudder at my ferocity.
“Yet I not only hope, I expect to change all this, to remove this prejudice now in your minds, to wash away this stain that reveals me in such loathsome guise. I intend to convince you of my innocence and show you that I have been most abominably and cruelly misjudged and misnamed — whether by accident or design remains to be seen. And I shall do this, not by an array of witnesses in rebuttal of those who already have appeared upon the stand, but by a single one upon whose testimony, reluctant though it will be, I shall rest my defense. Nor is this witness even a friend of mine. Rather he is my dearest enemy. His fondest wish would be my undoing. If to desire a man’s death were enough I should be rotting in my grave long before this charge had been brought against me and you would never have been called to the solemn duty of judging me.
“Your honor, I respectfully pray that Randolph Raggan be sworn and placed upon the stand as a witness in this case.”
Chapter VI
When the witness called by the defense had been sworn and taken his seat on the stand, not without a murmur of surprise and questioning comment rippling over the crowd that packed the room, and after the usual preliminary questions, Smith proceeded to examine him as follows:
“You are too well known, Mr. Raggan, to make it necessary for me to put the usual questions regarding your identity, place of residence and occupation, except for the purposes of court record. The jury is tired, as we all are, and will appreciate, I hope, my desire to shorten the remaining part of their labors as much as possible. To that end I promise to be brief, to limit my questions to essential points only, and, if at all possible, to omit any summing up for the defense upon the completion of your examination. If you will be equally brief and to the point in replying to my questions I do not think that this case need take many more minutes.
“Did you, Mr. Raggan, know the deceased, Harriet Smith?”
“Yes.”
“How well — to what degree did your acquaintance or friendship extend?”
“Very slight. A casual acquaintance only.”
“You had spoken to her?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Oh, once or twice, possibly three or four at the most.”
“On what subject or subjects?”
“I cannot remember. Nothing more than the ordinary civilities of chance meetings.”
“Where were these meetings?”
“On the street, in stores, where I might meet anyone.”
“You never met, talked with her alone?”
“Never.”
“You are positive?”
“Absolutely.”
“Did you ever call at the home of Harriet Smith to talk with her?”
“No.”
“Or for any other purpose?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been inside the Smith residence, except in your official capacity, at the time of the investigation of the murder of Harriet Smith?”
“No.”
“When and where did you last see the deceased?”
“I saw her body at the undertak—”
“Never mind that. When did you last see her alive?”
“Alive? Let me see. I cannot say with any degree of certainty. I do not recall having seen her for several weeks, possibly a month or more, prior to her — death.”
“You are sure that you did not talk with her at any time immediately preceding or on the date of November eleventh?”
“I did not.”
“Did you at any time carry on a correspondence with the deceased Harriet Smith, wife of Samuel Smith, the defendant in this case?”
“No.”
“Did you ever receive letters from her?”
“No.”
“Not a single letter?”
“No.”
“Did you ever write letters to her?”
“No.”
“Not even one?”
“Not even one.”
“Your eyesight is good, Mr. Raggan?”
“Yes, reasonably so.”
“You do not have to use glasses to read?”
“No.”
“Nor to distinguish and identify ordinary objects at the normal distance for reasonably good eyesight?”
“No. I enjoy normal vision.”
“I show you these notes that I have been making. Can you, at this distance, distinguish the handwriting sufficiently to recognize it if you were familiar with its individual characteristics?”
“What are you driving at?”
“Never mind what I am ‘driving at’ — just now. Answer my question, please. Can you see this writing clearly?”
“I suppose so — yes.”
“Good. I now show you a letter written in an even larger and more distinct hand. Can you see the writing?”
“I ref—. Yes, I can see the writing.”
“Do you recognize it?”
“How do you mean, ‘recognize’ it?”
“Is it the handwriting of anyone you know?”
“Possibly. I cannot be sure.”
“Are your eyes troubling you at this moment, Mr. Raggan?”
“No. What of it? Of course they are not.”
“I am relieved to hear that your sight is not suddenly impaired; that they have not suffered any sudden shock. I thought — but, to save time and so not weary the jury unduly, I now step closer to you and hold this letter as near to you as I can without placing it within your reach. Now can you recognize the handwriting — sufficiently to tell the jury who, in your opinion, might have written this letter?”
“It looks familiar.”
“How familiar? Whose handwriting, with which you are familiar, does it resemble?”
“It — it looks like my own.”
“Ah, now we are progressing. Did you, Randolph Raggan, write this letter which I hold in my hand?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do not know whether you wrote a letter in a hand that ‘looks like’ your own? In a hand of markedly individual characteristics, such as yours?”
“I could not say that I did or did not write it — not without reading it. It might be a forgery.”
“You are right, Mr. Raggan, it might be a forgery, but it is not, as I think you will acknowledge sooner or later. To prove a forgery, as to prove a murder, it generally is necessary to prove a motive for the crime. And I cannot conceive of anyone having any motive to forge the contents of this letter. So again I ask you: Did you write this letter?”