"Very well, sir," Don Graves said, and left the window.
Almost at once Harry Nevers thrust out his head and called: "This test isn't fair. We should have the right to have one of the men stand where Graves claims the woman was standing, if we want to. That would determine whether Graves could actually see that the other occupant of the room was a woman. It might have been a man."
"In a pink negligee, eh?" sneered Drumm. "Now listen, the only function that you gentlemen have is to pick which one of the three men, and which one of the two women will stand in that position. That was definitely understood, and that is the condition of the test. If an attempt is to be made to change it, I will call off the test."
"Oh, very well," said Nevers, "have it your own way. But it doesn't seem fair to me."
Don Graves came down the stairs, left the front door, and said in a low voice to Claude Drumm: "The man is drunk. He made a nuisance of himself up there, but I didn't want to offend him because I didn't want his newspaper to roast me."
"All right," snapped Drumm, "leave him to me. Are we ready?"
"All ready," said Perry Mason.
They took their positions in the automobile for the last time. Flashlights boomed up in puffs of dazzling flame as newspaper photographers took action pictures of the car pulling away from the curb.
Judge Purley snapped it through the gears and drove up the winding roadway at a fair rate of speed.
"It is understood," said Perry Mason, "that Don Graves will not look back until Judge Purley indicates the place on the road where Graves first gave his exclamation."
"So understood," snapped Drumm.
The car purred up the roadway, swinging around the curves.
"Now!" said Judge Purley.
Don Graves pushed his face up against the rear window of the automobile and cupped his hands around his eyes.
Perry Mason flashed a glance at the study window of the house.
The figures could be seen for a single brief glimpse, standing in position.
The car swept around the curve in the roadway, and the house vanished from view.
"I got it, sir," said Don Graves.
"Who was it?" asked Judge Purley, braking the car to a stop.
"The man in the blue serge suit with the dark hair, and the woman in the pink dress," said Don Graves.
Claude Drumm heaved a sigh.
"There, counselor," he said to Perry Mason, "goes your defense in this case—blown to smithereens!"
Perry Mason said nothing.
Judge Purley sighed ponderously.
"I will now turn around and go back," he said. "I presume the newspaper people will want to make some more photographs."
"Very well," Drumm told him.
Perry Mason said nothing. His rugged face was expressionless. The patient, thoughtful eyes stared meditatively at the face of Judge Purley.
Chapter 25
The courtroom was jammed with spectators as Judge Markham marched in from the chambers in the rear of the bench.
"Stand up," shouted the bailiff.
The spectators arose and remained standing while Judge Markham strode to the judicial chair and the bailiff intoned the formula which convened the session of court.
Judge Markham sat down, and banged the gavel, and spectators, attorneys, jurors and defendants dropped into their seats.
The atmosphere of the courtroom was electric, but sympathies were all with the prosecution.
In man there is implanted a sporting instinct to side with the underdog, but this is in man, the individual. Mob psychology is different from individual psychology, and the psychology of the pack is to tear down the weaker and devour the wounded. Man may sympathize with the underdog, but he wants to side with the winner.
And the results of the test had been spread to the public through the pages of every newspaper in the city. It had been dramatic and spectacular. There had been about it something of the element of a gambling proposition. The defense had staked much on the happening of a certain event, on the turn of a single card, and it is human nature to crowd breathlessly forward as spectators when men are risking high stakes on a single card.
Therefore the reading public eagerly devoured the newspaper accounts of that which had happened. The outcome of the case was now a foregone conclusion. Don Graves had vindicated his ability to identify the occupants of the room from the exact point where he had seen the murder omitted, and under exactly similar circumstances.
The gaze of the spectators in the courtroom had shifted now from the witnesses, and was fastened upon the defendants, particularly upon the shapely and slender figure of Frances Celane.
Old campaigners who have participated in hard fought legal battles will agree that this is the most ominous sign which a courtroom can give. When a case first starts, the attention of the spectators is fastened upon the defendants. They strain their necks with curiosity, watch the faces of the defendants for some flicker of expression which will convey a hint of their feelings. The average spectator likes to look at a defendant, try to visualize the defendant in the midst of the circumstances surrounding the crime, and reach an opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the prisoner, to the extent that he or she seems visually to fit into that picture.
Then, after the trial is under way, the auditors become interested in the unfolding of the story of the crime itself, in the battle over testimony. Their attention is centered upon the witnesses, upon the judge, upon the dramatic personalities of the attorneys as they match wits in legal arguments.
So long as the issue is in doubt, so long as the interest remains centered upon the outcome of the case, so long will the spectators continue to fasten their eyes upon the witnesses; upon the actors in the drama that is being unfurled. But let some event crash the testimony to a climax, remove the element of uncertainty, convince the spectators of the guilt of the defendant, and the eyes of the spectators will automatically shift to the defendant; not trying now to visualize how the defendant looked in the commission of the crime, but staring at the prisoner with that morbid curiosity which comes to men who look at one who is about to die. They like to terrify themselves by thinking of the morning when the inevitable hands will drag the protesting prisoner from the cell and march the lagging footsteps along that last grim walk.
It is the sign which lawyers dread, the verdict of these masses, the thumbsdown signal which shows the turning point has been passed, and that the prisoner is condemned.
Never a veteran trial lawyer who has fought his way through the intricate web of many cases, but has learned to appreciate the dread portent of that shifting attention. Defendants do not know its fatal significance, often they smirk with satisfaction as they see themselves the sudden cynosure of the eyes of the spectators; but not so the attorney who sits at the counselors' table, his law books piled in front of him, his face calm and serene, but his soul shrinking from the portent of that silent verdict.
In this case the silent verdict had been rendered. It was guilty of murder in the first degree for both defendants, and there was no recommendation of mercy.
Judge Markham's level tones cut the tense silence of the courtroom.
"Mr. Don Graves was on the witness stand," he said, "and was being crossexamined. The case was continued from last week, pursuant to a stipulation by counsel that a test was to be made with this witness—a test that had been suggested by the defense, and stipulated to by the prosecution.
"Gentlemen, do I understand that the results of that test were to be received in evidence?"
Claude Drumm rose to his feet and said sneeringly: "It was a test which was conducted with every possible degree of fairness to the defense, at the challenge of the defense, and pursuant to stipulation. It was participated in by this witness under conditions identical to those which surrounded the commission of the crime, and I asked that it be received in evidence."