In the Jury Room

EDMUND PEARSON

A Personal Experience in a Murder Trial Which Shows the Functioning of Law and Order

THE judge—a birdlike little man—finished his charge, and we filed out to the jury-room. I looked at my watch, as we left the Court,—four o'clock.

"That's not bad," I thought; "I'll maintain my record and get home to dinner. Moreover, the prisoner will have the first chance, for eight months, to eat his dinner outside the Tombs."

Jury duty had been easy: the trial had only lasted four days and we had kept bankers' hours: ten to four. I had been able to get some of my own work done every day.

The sporty-looking juror pulled my sleeve as we went through the corridor:

"Say, pardon me, but have you ever served as foreman on a jury before?"

"I've never been on a jury at all," I told him.

"Well, lemme make a suggestion; if you don't mind. Take a ballot right away. It'll save time. Some of these fellows will want to talk till Hell freezes.

Take a ballot, first thing, and that will shut 'em up."

I thought the idea a good one. I am not so sure about it, now. The jury-room was a grimy place, as if hundreds of men had scrubbed around on the chairs, and slept on the table for years. There was some paper and ink and a scratchy pen.

I was not sure that the other jurors would care to have me assume the right to act as chairman; most of them were ten or twenty years older than I; and I was only foreman by chance of being the first juror chosen.

But I thought I would risk it; we would only be here half an hour at any rate. Then I would have the satisfaction of saying the two words which would set the little wop free.

I had not liked him at first.

His stunted figure and his long arms made him look somewhat like a chimpanzee. At the time of the murder—twenty years ago (how often during the trial we had heard those words: "twenty years ago, I no remember!") at that time, his friends had called him "Il Ravanello"—the radish.

But his story, on the witness stand, had been straight. Afterwards, during his lawyer's address, he had sat quietly, and wiped the palms of his hands with his handkerchief. He had not sobbed nor blubbered, nor had his counsel resorted to the pathetic,— except to remark that the prisoner had only been caught through a money order, by which he was sending money to his sister in Italy.

When the jury were shut in, everyone wanted to walk about the room a bit; nearly everyone lighted a cigarette or a cigar. Then they readily agreed to a ballot. I looked over and counted the scraps of paper. There was a surprise for me: Not guilty: 9. Guilty: 3.

The sporty juror was instantly willing to talk.

"I'm one of the three," he said. "But I'm not unreasonable. I'll be willing to modify that a little. Shall we ballot again?"

But an academic looking juror, who was actually an advertising man, thought we had better discuss the case. He was very clear and sensible,—or so I thought.

"Of course," said he, "the prosecutor has to rely on the two witnesses who said they saw the shooting, and said they recognized the prisoner among the three men who did the shooting."

"But they both contradicted themselves," someone interrupted, "and swore positively that they didn't recognize the prisoner."

"That is it," said the first man. "The barber swore he didn't, and then swore he did. He must have been lying at one time or the other. Now, personally, I discard him altogether. Whichever time he told the truth, he is a perjurer, and I will not vote to send any man to the chair on his testimony. Then there is only one eye-witness left. That's young Costello."

He looked at me.

"What did you think of him?"

"To my mind," I said, "he's worse than the barber. He loves the limelight too much. I don't believe he was even there."

"Why should he say he was there?" asked a chinless man.

The first man answered for me.

"Because he was a kid eight years old at the time of the murder. You must remember this crime happened twenty years ago."

"We're not apt to forget it!" said several.

"Well," continued the advertiser, "he is altogether too fresh: too fond of attracting attention. He tries to be a movie hero. He is twenty-eight now; he was only eight then; but his character has not changed a bit. The judge said we must take his evidence as that of a child of eight. It was his boss who was shot; it would be natural in him to say he saw the killing; to boast of it to the other kids. He would never admit he missed anything. And he swore both ways, too,—he said, first, he did not recognize the prisoner; and, then, that he did."

"But," somebody objected, "he stuck to it that he went to the shop with his boss, and was there when the murder took place."

"Yes," another replied; "but the woman who kept the shop said that Buzillo—or whatever the dead man's name was—came there alone."

"And there you have it," concluded the first man. "Two liars. They are all the district attorney has got to depend on. If their testimony does not give you a reasonable doubt of guilt, what can?"

We took two more ballots. On the first, the sporty juror changed his vote to "manslaughter". He seemed to think that the prisoner was "a little bit guilty" and that eight or ten years in Sing Sing would do him no harm at all. On the third, he said he wouldn't be a kill-joy, and joined the majority. So it now stood: Not guilty: 10.

Guilty: 2.

It had been a quarrel among Italian butchers, on the upper East Side. One dealer, Panzillo, had begun to cut prices. Whereupon the rival dealer, urged on by his wife, had seized a cleaver, and with one or two of his salesmen, had chased Panzillo into his own ice-box. This was on Saturday afternoon, and there had followed a brief truce, until the blessed Sabbath morn. Then Panzillo had ventured upon the street, and had gone to a shop nearby, on some errand. As he came out again he was met by two (or was it three?) men, who shot him down. He lay gasping in his blood, and calling the name of his young sweetheart. She had appeared as a witness,—she was now a stout matron.

The murderers ran away, and the wife of the triumphant butcher stuck a broom out of her window. Like Admiral Tromp, who had swept the seas of his enemies, she announced to East 107th Street that price-cutting was at an end.

The prisoner had been one of her assistants, —a young Italian, just landed in this country. He spoke no English. Was he one of the two or three men present at the shooting? If so, he was guilty of murder. (The others had fled to foreign lands, and were never caught.) Two witnesses—the contradictory ones—gave doubtful evidence that they had recognized him. He had gone on the witness stand and told a reasonable story. He said he was not present at the Sunday morning encounter, but was delivering meat on the next street. He heard the shooting as he returned. Neighbors rushed up to him, and said that his boss was engaged in murdering Panzillo. They advised him to run.

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He did run. He never stopped until he reached Cleveland. There, under another name, he had conducted himself with honor and discretion for twenty years. Then, some relatives of Panzillo had found him; had notified the District Attorney of New York; and now we twelve were voting on the truth or falsity of his story.

The Assistant District Attorney, who was prosecuting, was not the hatchet-faced rascal who always plays the part in the crook-dramas. He was a very pleasant-looking fellow, with Harvard Law School written all over him. He had walked directly out of one of Arthur Train's stories. The prisoner's lawyer was not much older; a little more grave; and quite as agreeable to see and hear. The trial had been absolutely fair; and the judge's charge so impartial that I could not guess his opinion. But—the case for the People, in the opinion of ten of us, had quite fallen down.

The two jurors who refused to believe that Il Ravanello could be innocent were—I should say—one, the ablest man on the jury, and the other, the stupidest. The first of these was about thirty; I think he was a poultry farmer on Long Island, although his home was in the City. He had the intelligence which should mark a university man. The Assistant District Attorney had talked directly to him,— he had spotted his man.

The other juror, who voted "guilty," looked like the Timid Soul in Mr. H. T. Webster's pictures: like Caspar Milquetoast. He stood up and made speeches. He knew the prisoner was guilty; he knew it because he knew it. He could see him there, shooting Panzillo. He said that perhaps he might be changed in his opinion, if he heard the testimony of one of the witnesses again. This caused us all to go back into Court, and hear this testimony read; it took one hour. When we were in the jury-room again, Milquetoast said that now he was more determined than ever. He was now sure that the man was guilty.

The quiet, intelligent juror said little. He was very courteous, but apparently determined. At seven o'clock, the sporty juror suggested dinner, and we all ate at the expense of the County. We were conducted to and fro by bailiffs,—again a scene by Arthur Train. It was a rainy night in spring, and the streets around Criminal Courts Building were silent and lonely. During dinner, the sporty juror gave me a complete history of the invention, rise and decline of the Eskimo Pie, and of the large fortune made therein. I was letter perfect in it, by the time I was filling my pipe.

At ten o'clock the intelligent juror gave in. He said quietly that he would not be stubborn; he had not been convinced by the defence, but he appreciated the fact that the rest of us felt there was a reasonable doubt of guilt. The stupid juror, who had been roaring like a lion ten minutes earlier, collapsed as quickly as a wet popover. He would not stand out alone, for one instant. There was a verdict, and the judge was sent for, and the prisoner brought over the bridge from the Tombs.

I spoke my little piece to an almost empty Court. It was getting on toward midnight. There were the judge, the lawyers, clerk and stenographer,— these and two officers, with the prisoner. The room had been cleared hours before, and, by the judge's orders, all the spectators had been frisked for weapons. Word had gone about that the Panzillo feud had not died away, and that the prisoner might find it rough going, if he left the Tombs that night.

He stood, beside his lawyer, smiling, and wiping his wet palms with his handkerchief, as the jury walked out. There was no hand-shaking; two or three of the twelve were not at ease in their minds.

His own friends were waiting for him. They had guns, and permits to carry them. They formed around him, when he came out at last, and, thus escorted, the little Radish disappeared up Centre Street.