An American Tragedy Theodore Dreiser (whitelam books .TXT) 📖

At times, in the middle of the night or just before dawn, with all the prison silent⁠—dreams⁠—a ghastly picture of all that he most feared and that dispelled every trace of courage and drove him instantly to his feet, his heart pounding wildly, his eyes strained, a cold damp upon his face and hands. That chair, somewhere in the State penitentiary. He had read of it⁠—how men died in it. And then he would walk up and down, thinking how, how, in case it did not come about as Jephson felt so sure that it would⁠—in case he was convicted and a new trial refused⁠—then, well⁠—then, might one be able to break out of such a jail as this, maybe, and run away? These old brick walls. How thick were they? But was it possible that with a hammer or a stone, or something that someone might bring him⁠—his brother Frank, or his sister Julia, or Ratterer, or Hegglund⁠—if only he could get in communication with some one of them and get him or her to bring him something of the kind⁠—If only he could get a saw, to saw those bars! And then run, run, as he should have in those woods up there that time! But how? And whither?

October 15⁠—with gray clouds and a sharp, almost January wind that herded the fallen leaves into piles and then scurried them in crisp and windy gusts like flying birds here and there. And, in spite of the sense of struggle and tragedy in the minds of many, with an electric chair as the shadowy mental background to it all, a sense of holiday or festival, with hundreds of farmers, woodsmen, traders, entering in Fords and Buicks⁠—farmer wives and husbands⁠—daughters and sons⁠—even infants in arms. And then idling about the public square long before the time for court to convene, or, as the hour neared, congregating before the county jail in the hope of obtaining a glimpse of Clyde, or before the courthouse door nearest the jail, which was to be the one entrance to the courtroom for the public and Clyde, and from which position they could see and assure entrance into the courtroom itself when the time came. And a flock of pigeons parading rather dismally along the cornices and gutters of the upper floor and roof of the ancient court.

And with Mason and his staff⁠—Burton Burleigh, Earl Newcomb, Zillah Saunders, and a young Bridgeburg law graduate by the name of Manigault⁠—helping to arrange the order of evidence as well as direct or instruct the various witnesses and venire-men who were already collecting in the antechamber of the now almost nationally known attorney for the people. And with cries outside of: “Peanuts!” “Popcorn!” “Hot dogs!” “Get the story of Clyde Griffiths, with all the letters of Roberta Alden. Only twenty-five cents!” (This being a set of duplicate copies of Roberta’s letters which had been stolen from Mason’s office by an intimate of Burton Burleigh’s and by him sold to a penny-dreadful publisher of Binghamton, who immediately issued them in pamphlet form together with an outline of “the great plot” and Roberta’s and Clyde’s pictures.)

And in the meantime, over in the reception or conference room of the jail, Alvin Belknap and Reuben Jephson, side by side with Clyde, neatly arrayed in the very suit he had sought to sink forever in the waters of Lower Twelfth Lake. And with a new tie and shirt and shoes added in order to present him in his Lycurgus best. Jephson, long and lean and shabbily dressed as usual, but with all of that iron and power that so impressed Clyde in every line of his figure and every movement or gesture of his body. Belknap⁠—looking like an Albany beau⁠—the one on whom was to fall the burden of the opening presentation of the case as well as the cross-examining, now saying: “Now you’re not going to get frightened or show any evidence of nervousness at anything that may be said or done at any time, are you, Clyde? We’re to be with you, you know, all through the trial. You sit right between us. And you’re going to smile and look unconcerned or interested, just as you wish, but never fearful⁠—but not too bold or gay, you know, so that they’d feel that you’re not taking this thing seriously. You understand⁠—just a pleasant, gentlemanly, and sympathetic manner all the time. And not frightened. For that will be certain to do us and you great harm. Since you’re innocent, you have no real reason to be frightened⁠—although you’re sorry, of course. You understand all that, I know, by now.”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” replied Clyde. “I will do just as you say. Besides, I never struck her intentionally, and that’s the truth. So why should I be afraid?” And here he looked at Jephson, on whom, for psychic reasons, he depended most. In fact the words he had just spoken were the very words which Jephson had so drilled into him during the two months just past. And catching the look, Jephson now drew closer and fixing Clyde with his gimlet and yet encouraging and sustaining blue eyes, began:

“You’re not guilty! You’re not guilty, Clyde, see? You understand that fully by now, and you must always believe and remember that, because it’s true. You didn’t intend to strike her, do you hear? You swear to that. You have sworn it to me and Belknap here, and we believe you. Now, it doesn’t make the least bit of difference that because of the circumstances surrounding all this we are not going to be able to make the average jury see this or believe it just as you tell it. That’s neither here nor there. I’ve told you that before. You know what the truth is⁠—and so do we. But, in order to get justice for you, we’ve had to get up