The Umbrella of Justice

HE old Judge leaned wearily upon his desk, listening with a quizzical expression to the impassioned summing-up of counsel for the prisoner. Though it was a murder case, there was no direct evidence to fix the crime upon the accused; and his counsel was conscientiously going through the time-honored argument against circumstantial evidence—an argument his honor had heard many, many times.

Anticipating each step, the Judge knew exactly when the jury would be reminded that it was “better fifty criminals should escape than that one innocent man be condemned,” and when they would be called upon to consider that if they “had the slightest reasonable doubt, they were under oath to acquit the prisoner.”

Use had dulled the magistrate's sympathies, but there was a straightforward look in the eyes of the man on trial that affected the Judge strongly. While the counsel rehearsed the long array of judicial mistakes, the jurist on the bench was rehearsing mentally the points he meant to make in his charge to the Jury. As it took form, the Judge felt that it would be clear, logical and convincing, and would make the lawyer's plea seem foolishly emotional—unworthy of serious consideration by hard-headed men of the world.

Yet—there was something disturbing in the clear eye of the wretched man in the lock. Was he innocent? But the Judge dismissed the thought as unworthy of the legal intellect. He had always believed in the trustworthiness of circumstantial evidence. “Give me,” he would say, “the incorruptible testimony of facts, cold facts—that cannot be silenced, confused by a browbeating counsel, or otherwise controverted.” His face assumed its usual judicial severity as the counsel for the prisoner closed with an impassioned appeal.

The hush of the court-room was broken as the audience awoke from constraint. The Judge glanced at the clock, and saw with relief that he might adjourn the morning session.

“Gentlemen." he remarked, “the court is adjourned. Be promptly in your seats at half-past two.”

It was one o'clock, and the usual adjournment had been for one hour, but the Judge had extended the time, that he might execute a little commission intrusted to him by his wife. The day was rainy, and she had decided that she would not need to go downtown if the Judge could do an errand for her during the luncheon hour.

The Judge's wife was coquettish for a lady of her years, and had found that the curling-iron was an adjunct to her toilet-table, and an aid to her charms. To buy a new one was the Judge's commission.

He regretted now that he had undertaken the trust, since he was at times absent-minded, and in remembering the curling-iron, he had forgotten his umbrella—a protection without which he never liked to expose his dignified silk hat to the weather. He made his way on foot to the hairdresser's shop—a shop in a part of the city seldom visited by him—and bought the curling-iron.

To escape the shower, the Judge decided that he would take his luncheon at the first restaurant he came to, in the hope that the rain would be over by the time he had finished eating.

He soon saw a modest restaurant, and deciding, after a hasty glance, that it would do, he entered, walked toward the rear of the room and took his seat at a table by himself.

While the Judge was eating, his mind reverted to the case on trial before him, and he resumed the composition of his charge to the jury. He paid the amount of his check to the waiter—forgetting to give a tip—and then put on his overcoat.

Looking about to see whether he had left anything, the Judge's eye fell upon an umbrella leaning against the wall. It was a nice, new, black-silk, close-rolling umbrella, with an ordinary bamboo handle. In short, an umbrella that might have been the twin brother of the Judge's own, then reposing in the rack in the Judge's hallway at home. The absent-minded jurist, absorbed in his legal problems, recognized the umbrella as his own, picked it up, and started for the door.

The true owner of the umbrella was sitting with his back to the Judge, and saw nothing of this; but his guardian angel must have warned him. Just as the Judge had reached the door, and paused to open the umbrella, the owner turned—saw the umbrella was gone—recognized it in the stranger's hand—and cried aloud for justice.

“Here, you! Hold on, there! Where are you going with my umbrella? You impudent scamp!”

The Judge turned as the other came hastily toward him. Such words addressed to one used to the greatest deference, were doubly insulting.

“Your umbrella!” he replied, with dignified and withering scorn. “Sir, this is not your umbrella. It is—”

But the words died on his tongue, as he suddenly remembered that he had left his own umbrella at home. Yet he went on, hardly realizing what he was saying. “If this is yours, where is mine? It's just like it.”

“It's nothing to me where yours is,” said the other, while the Judge was wondering whether he had told a lie in his confusion.

“Come, drop that,” the owner insisted, losing his temper. “This umbrella-stealing is too popular for my taste. You may think yourself lucky I don't call the police!”

“Shall I get an officer?” asked the waiter the Judge had forgotten to tip.

“No, I'm too busy this afternoon. I'll let the rascal go,” answered the owner.

“But, my dear sir” the Judge began.

“Don't 'my dear sir' me!” was the answer. “I hate a sneak.”

“I'm a respectable man,” the Judge broke out. “Do you know the name of Judge”

Before the magistrate could give his name, the aggressive owner broke in, derisively:

“You may be respectable, as you call it, but you can't carry off my umbrella, all the same. I'm not giving silk umbrellas as premiums for respectability. And as for your friend the Judge, he's probably some peanut politician who'd pick up an umbrella himself if he got a fair chance. No doubt you are a 'professor' or 'doctor' or 'judge' yourself. All scamps are, nowadays. My advice to you, old man, is to drop the subject, and skip out of this—lively!”

A group of customers and waiters were looking on, grinning and chuckling with approval. The Judge saw that public opinion was against him; and he could not deny that the “cold facts” were against him, too. If it had been anything but an umbrella!

He saw that there was a question of making an afternoon of it—or of instant flight. Suddenly he had an inspiration.

“Sir,” he remarked, with hauteur, “I will give you my card.”

This sobered the group for an instant, and they looked on respectfully as the Judge took out his pocketbook and drew forth a bit of pasteboard—the prima-facie proof of respectability.

But—fate was against him. As the Judge drew forth the only card the pocketbook contained, a single glance showed him that he was lost. It read:—

A roar of laughter burst from the crowd and and the owner of the umbrella administered the coup de grâce by the remark:

“Bluff didn't go, did it, old Skeezicks? Come—clear out, quick!”

There may be heroic souls who would have risen to the occasion. But the Judge did not. His temper was at boiling-point, and he saw he must punch the fellow's head or leave at once. He turned and fled, asking only to escape.

When the court was again in session, the Judge—who had been a little late—proceeded to deliver his charge to the jury. It was a forcible plea against being misled by appearances, a warning against precipitation in judgment. Though the form of impartiality was maintained, the spirit of mercy informed and inspired every sentence.

The prisoner listened with amazement. Some subtle magnetism conveyed to him the assurance that the Judge favored an acquittal. The lawyers, the jury, the lookers-on in the court-room, felt the turn of the tide. The Judge instructed the jury that previous good character was entitled to much weight as against circumstantial evidence: and though his words were beyond exception, every soul within hearing glowed in the fervor of his eloquence, and all looked for an acquittal.

“Not guilty!" said the foreman, when the jury returned from a short absence—and the life of an innocent man was saved. Only an umbrella had been between him and the sentence of death.