mr. appleboy makes his way from the court-room to the corridor of the criminal courts building a sadder, wiser and more chastened member of society. he now has personal knowledge of the way in which our criminal laws are enforced and some idea of the administration of criminal justice in general in new york city. he has been dragged down to the criminal courts building, to the district attorney's office, the grand jury room, and the general sessions not less than a dozen times, and he now takes a solemn vow that never, if he can possibly avoid it, will he be prevailed upon to go there again.
our defeated hero on reaching home finds mrs. appleboy waiting luncheon for him.
"well, silas," she inquires, "has that woman been convicted at last?"
her husband laughs somewhat shamefacedly.
"no; i'm afraid she has gotten the best of us," he replies, unfolding his napkin and beaming pleasantly upon his better half. "the fact is that she has skipped her bail—gone back to ireland."
"what!" returns mrs. appleboy. "do you mean to say that that woman has been allowed to get away after you have been doing nothing, apparently, for the last six months but spend your time in those miserable court-rooms down there? it's outrageous."
[pg 130]
"oh, you can't help that," he replies, "so long as prisoners are admitted to bail—they have the sacred privilege, guaranteed under our constitution, of running away."
"rubbish!" exclaims the lady.
"and do you know," continues appleboy, "it really is a tremendous relief to feel that i shall not have to take the witness stand and be cross-examined as to my past career by some miserable little shyster lawyer from the tombs."
"why, silas," interrupts his wife sharply, "what have you been doing that you are ashamed to tell of?"
"oh, i didn't mean that," he adds hastily, "but they ask such embarrassing questions; i might have to tell how much property i own, and then the tax collector would get after us."
"speaking of property," continues mrs. appleboy, "where's the teapot?"
appleboy gazes at her blankly. in the excitement attendant upon maria's non-appearance in the court-room, the family heirloom had completely escaped his mind.
"i forgot all about it," confesses appleboy.
"silas!" cries his wife. "i should think that after all your experiences you would have had sense enough not to leave the criminal courts building without bringing that teapot with you. how do you know maria hasn't taken it with her to ireland?"
"oh, i'm sure she hasn't," answers her husband; "it's down at the police station; they tagged it, you know, and left it in the custody of the sergeant."
"well, hurry through your dinner," commands[pg 131] his wife, "and go right down and get it. i am surprised at you."
appleboy skips his usual demi-tasse and fragrant perfecto, the result of which omission is to leave him but half satisfied and with a feeling of incipient indigestion, and betakes himself as fast as possible to the police station, where he has last seen the teapot. now the police station, as is a way with police stations, is located without any reference whatever to the conveniences of transportation, hence vestryman appleboy is obliged to walk some ten or twelve blocks towards the river after a heavy meal, and reaches his destination very much out of breath and in a distinctly ill humor. to his surprise the doorkeeper at once recalls him.
"how are you, mr. appleboy? come right in," says that functionary in greeting.
"how do you do?" responds appleboy. "i have come to get my teapot."
"ask the sergeant about it," directs the doorman.
so appleboy makes his way to the desk, where he is again recognized, this time by the sergeant on duty.
"well, mr. appleboy," remarks the sergeant, "what became of that cook of yours? she was a bad one! i hope they convicted her."
"they did not," replies mr. appleboy; "they didn't even get a chance at her. she got away."
"jumped?" inquires the sergeant with a grin.
"that's what she did," acknowledges appleboy, "after she had kept me chasing up and down for nearly six months."
"oh, she was a sly one," answers the sergeant[pg 132] sympathetically. "a little vacation up the river would have done her good."
"i suppose there's no objection to my having the teapot back, is there?"
"sure not," answers the sergeant. "it's yours, ain't it? of course you can have it back."
"do you mind letting me have it then?" asks appleboy.
"oh, we haven't got your teapot!" exclaims the sergeant. "that was handed over to the property clerk at police headquarters. i suppose when the case was set for trial the pot was sent down to the district attorney's office; he's probably got it locked up in his safe,—i mean whatever assistant was going to try the case."
"well, well," says mr. appleboy; "of course, i assumed it was right here, where i saw it last. what would you advise me to do?"
"better go right down and see the assistant district attorney," says the sergeant. "skipped her bail, did she? well, that's a pretty good one, too!"
although it is now three o'clock, mr. appleboy goes to the nearest elevated station and takes the train down town. this occupies about half an hour. he gets off at the corner of franklin street and walks to the criminal courts building. he is now thoroughly familiar with this lugubrious locality and finds the elevator without difficulty, ascending amid the usual odoriferous company to the floor upon which mr. smith, the assistant district attorney, has his office. mr. smith's door, however, is locked, and inquiry from a deaf attendant in a neighboring corridor elicits the fact that the assistant is engaged in trying a murder case in part[pg 133] iv of the general sessions. appleboy now bethinks him of jones and forthwith descends to the next tier of offices, but there finds to his chagrin that the latter also is trying a case.
determined not to be thwarted by any such trifling matter, our hero takes the elevator to the second floor of the building, upon which the court-rooms are located. he first applies at part i. the superannuated attendant at the door eyes him sharply, asks him for a subp?na, and upon his failure to produce it denies him admittance. appleboy, naturally indignant, inquires the reason. the watchdog at the door brusquely replies that persons having no business in the court-room are not permitted to enter.
"but i want to speak to mr. jones."
"well, he can't see you now, anyhow," replies the doorkeeper. "it won't do you a particle of good to go in; he's right in the middle of summing up the case to the jury."
this seems a sufficient excuse, even to our much-annoyed old gentleman, and he thereupon makes his way to the court-room in which he has been informed that smith is disporting himself. here he makes a second attempt to secure admission. on this occasion there is not even the question of a subp?na. no one can be admitted, because the judge is "charging the jury." the answer is definite and final.
the doorkeeper, however, is a good-natured, genial, warm-hearted irishman, and notes with some sympathy the disappointment and chagrin of the weary little old man. appleboy observes the benignity of the other's expression and tenders a cigar,—not what is commonly known about the building[pg 134] as a "cigar" (six for a quarter) or even a "good cigar" (a ten-center), but a bang-up, a-1, twenty-five-cent havana, with a gorgeous coat of many colors. being very tired he lights another for himself. the two converse amicably.
it now develops that the doorkeeper not only remembers appleboy, but the case and the teapot, and finally, having become conversant with the entire situation, he pronounces judgment, namely, that mr. appleboy will find the teapot at the property clerk's office at police headquarters; that while it is possible that it might remain in the custody of one of the assistants, or in charge of the property clerk, attached to the district attorney's office, it is very unlikely that such is the case, since the defendant was never placed on trial. he therefore advises appleboy to return with all haste to 300 mulberry street and secure the return of his property from the person there having it in charge. appleboy is very much pleased; he begins to regard himself as quite a "mixer," while for a brief moment visions of running for mayor or perhaps for alderman hover in his mind; and after presenting the doorkeeper with a couple more havanas he makes his way out of the building upon the center street side.
appleboy supposes, as is not unnatural, that police headquarters must be somewhere in the immediate neighborhood of the criminal courts building. a laborer, in response to his question, waves his hand in a northerly direction, and appleboy sets out, traversing what seems to him to be an interminable distance. every one whom he addresses states that headquarters is just a block or two farther on. soon he finds himself on mulberry street; swarms of[pg 135] little children congregate upon the sidewalk and pass comments upon his appearance; italian ladies in faded négligée look down upon him from upper windows; bunches of macaroni in a half-solidified condition stream from frame-works erected in the areas, and appleboy shudders as he thinks of the germs wafted down the side streets and from the open windows of the tenements which must, as he believes, collect and form a thick crust upon the surface of this unattractive variety of nutriment. from time to time he crosses the street for the purpose of avoiding a fight between small boys or a group of children dancing around an organ; occasionally he is obliged to walk in the middle of the street itself. after twenty minutes he comes in sight of an inhospitable-looking structure, which, he is informed by the peanut seller upon the corner, is that for which he seeks.
"polica headquarta!" chatters the italian and grins; he knows well enough what it is, and "many there be that go in thereat."
appleboy crosses the street and ascends the steps, meeting as he does so a squad of policemen who bang open the door and come marching down in pairs. he shrinks to one side, and then timidly makes his entry. an officer in the hall inquires his business.
"i desire to see the property clerk," says mr. appleboy, "and to secure the return of a teapot which was stolen from me."
"the property clerk's office closes at four o'clock," says the officer; "you'll have to come to-morrow morning, at nine."
appleboy is disgusted; he has spent what is prac[pg 136]tically an entire afternoon in the pursuit of his teapot and has accomplished nothing.
"it's outrageous," he cries; "the idea of a public office closing at four o'clock in the afternoon! what do these fellows do, i would like to know, to earn their salary? nine to four,—pooh! why, it isn't half a day's work."
the officer has turned on his heel and walks slowly away, leaving mr. appleboy fuming by the door. the corridor is musty and dark, its stone flagging worn by the tread of millions of heavily booted feet. poor old mr. appleboy is very tired; the dingy windows, the gloomy corridor, the unsympathetic policeman, the noise and smells of the italian quarter, the weary trip to the district attorney's office and to the station house have brought him almost to the verge of tears. he is ashamed to go home and tell his wife that he has accomplished nothing,—he has not even seen the teapot. feeling very small indeed appleboy pushes open the door and passes out upon mulberry street. no one notices him; in this official world a bank president is but a unit among the countless multitudes of the public. he stumbles into a subway train, seeks sanctuary in his club and takes a turkish bath.
let us pass over the painful scene upon the return of appleboy teapotless. his lady is hardly to be blamed for showing irritation over her husband's failure to recover that interesting relic and valuable domestic adjunct. she knows she could have done much better herself. at any rate she would not now calmly return home from the court with the humiliating admission that the prisoner had escaped and that the teapot had disappeared. things are very[pg 137] unpleasant that evening, and no suggestion on the part of appleboy that they go to the theatre or the opera will bring a smile over the features of his irate spouse.
the next morning mr. appleboy is up betimes. he does not wait for his wife to come down to breakfast, but pours himself a cup of coffee and snatches a roll at the sideboard. a quarter to nine finds him at police headquarters. in the clear morning sunshine the building does not look so repellent, and he trots up the steps, pushes open the door, and, avoiding his adversary of the afternoon before, saunters nonchalantly down the corridor until he sees a small door at the top of a couple of steps bearing the legend, "property clerk's office."
the property clerk, whoever he is, is already there. appleboy finds himself in a small room divided by a wire grating; this has a small opening through which he is obliged to converse with the official in charge.
"i have come to get a teapot which was stolen from me," explains appleboy.
"what is the state of the case?" inquires the property clerk.
"the thief has forfeited his, i mean her, bail," replies our hero.
"what was her name?"
"maria holohan."
"when did she steal the teapot?"
"last june."
"where did you last see the teapot?" asks the clerk.
"at the station house, with a tag on it," appleboy replies.
[pg 138]
"well, what makes you think we have it?" asks the clerk.
"why, the policeman down at the court-room told me that you kept all the property which was retained as evidence," answers appleboy.
the clerk rapidly turns over the leaves in a large book. evidently he finds what he is looking for and, nodding, answers: "well, here's the record of the case. one silver teapot, value fifty. officer making arrest, patrick mcginnis. prisoner's name, maria holohan. claimant's name, silas appleboy. that's you, is it? stolen property, teapot. held for evidence, yes. there you are, and you say now she skipped her bail?"
"certainly," answers appleboy.
"and you want the teapot?"
"of course i do," answers appleboy.
"well, first you have to get an order from the court to that effect," says the clerk.
appleboy almost loses his temper. has he got to make another trip down to that miserable criminal courts building?
"look here," he exclaims rather angrily, "what is the sense of all this red tape? the case is over, i own the teapot,—why don't you give it to me and be done with it?"
the clerk smiles,—a trifle condescendingly, thinks appleboy.
"my dear sir," he says, "are you aware that i have no means of knowing that you are the silas appleboy who owns this teapot, except your own say so?"
"isn't that enough?" shouts appleboy.
"it ought to be," responds the clerk, "but some[pg 139]times it isn't. i don't even know that the woman has skipped her bail."
appleboy begins to see the force of the clerk's argument.
"i never imagined that a gentleman would be tossed about from pillar to post, as i have been since i lost that teapot. what is it you say i must do; get an order from the mayor?"
"no, no,—the judge," answers the clerk.
"how shall i get it?" inquires appleboy rather huffily.
"oh, ask the assistant district attorney; he will probably get it for you."
"thank you," says appleboy stiffly, and marches out. this time he takes the subway to canal street, reaching the criminal courts building a few moments after nine. much to his surprise mr. smith is already down at his office hard at work.
"ah, mr. appleboy, good-morning to you," he exclaims.
"how are you, mr. smith?" responds appleboy. "i have come after that confounded teapot."
"oh, the one your cook stole. i remember it well. where is it?"
"at police headquarters," responds appleboy, "and they want me to get an order from some judge or something before they will give it up to me."
"that's easily managed," responds the assistant, "but you have to get a waiver from this office of any claim that we may have upon the teapot as evidence. there is a regular printed blank. i think, inasmuch as jones was actually going to try the case when maria skipped her bail, that he had better[pg 140] fill it out. after you get it, come back here and i'll make the application for you."
appleboy begins to feel better. here is some one that knows his business. he lights a cigar and descends to the next floor, where he finds his old friend jones. jones is quite ready to give the desired waiver, and selects one from a pigeon-hole in his desk. he fills it out to read as follows:
new york, october 7, 1907.
district attorney's office,
county of new york.
the people of the state of }
new york on the complaint of }
silas appleboy }
against } for grand larceny
in the second degree
maria holohan. }
this office has no further use for the property taken from the defendant in this case, and now in the possession of the property clerk of the police department. no objection is therefore made by me to its delivery to any person who proves to your satisfaction his right to the possession of the same,—one silver teapot.
a. bird,
district attorney.
per william jones, d.a.d.a.
to the property clerk of the police department, borough of manhattan, city of new york.
"now we'll go down and see if the judge will give us an order," says jones.
"why, is there any doubt about it?" inquires[pg 141] appleboy, fearful that perhaps after all he is going to lose his teapot.
"it all depends on circumstances," answers jones. "some of the judges are perfectly willing to give orders while others are not. you see, the trouble in your case is that the woman has never been tried, so that the question of whether or not she stole your teapot has really not been decided at all."
"the wicked flee—!" murmurs appleboy in his most approved friday evening manner.
they take the elevator down to the second floor, and make their way to that part of the sessions upon whose calendar maria's case appeared at the time she forfeited her bail. a trial is going on, and a pompous little lawyer is cross-examining a stout lady who weeps and laughs hysterically by turns. as the lawyer pauses for breath mr. jones arises and addresses the court.
"may it please your honor, in the case of the people against maria holohan, charged with grand larceny, the bail in which was forfeited before your honor about a week ago, i desire to apply for an order directing the property clerk at police headquarters to turn over the property, namely a silver teapot, to the complainant, who is here in court."
"but the case has never been tried, you say, mr. jones," objects his honor.
"that is all very true," returns the assistant, "but the woman has run away, her bail has been forfeited, and judgment entered and satisfied."
"supposing, however, she were captured and brought back and tried, how do i know but that the jury might acquit her? and they might acquit her on the specific ground that the teapot belonged to[pg 142] her, and not to the defendant. i should then be in a position of having directed its return to a person to whom it did not belong."
"of course what your honor says is entirely correct," answers jones, "but it is unlikely that we shall ever hear of the case again."
"i don't know about that," answers the judge. "your office might become suddenly extremely energetic and try to extradite her."
"well, it seems rather hard on mr. appleboy," responds jones.
"of course it's hard; he has my entire sympathy," replies the judge; "but i cannot take the responsibility of deciding who owns property in a case which has not been tried. i am not here for that purpose. let him take the proper legal steps to secure the return of his property in the civil courts."
appleboy, who has understood very little of this colloquy, but who supposes that, for some entirely insufficient reason apparently, the judge is trying to block his efforts to secure the return of his property, suddenly jumps to his feet and shouts:—
"look here, your honor, i would like to have a word about this, if i may! that teapot of mine was stolen last june; i caught my cook in the very act of selling it to a pawnbroker; i had her arrested on the spot; she admitted her crime, and acknowledged her guilt in the police court. my teapot is tagged and locked up in a room at police headquarters, and they won't give it to me unless your honor will grant an order directing them to do so. kindly tell me what i am to do."
the crowd in the court-room titters and the court[pg 143] attendant raps loudly with a paper-weight on the oaken railing for silence. the judge regards mr. appleboy good-naturedly.
"i am very sorry you have had so much trouble. my position in the matter simply is that i cannot personally take the responsibility of deciding to whom this property belongs, particularly when no jury has ever passed upon the guilt or innocence of the defendant. i shall be very glad, however, to approve any certificate which the district attorney may choose to give you stating that he has no further need or use for the property."
appleboy brightens.
"your honor," says he, "mr. jones has already given me such a certificate, and i shall be much obliged to you if you will approve it."
jones hands it to the judge, who writes the word "approved" upon it, then returns it to the assistant.
"you will observe," says his honor, "that all i do in the matter is to approve the statement of the district attorney that he makes no objection to the delivery of the property to any person who proves to the satisfaction of the property clerk his right to the possession of the same. my approval really does not amount to anything at all. i cannot grant you a court order. i am aware that several of my associates might do so under exactly similar circumstances, but i personally do not care to assume any such responsibility. proceed with the case on trial."
out in the corridor appleboy inquires anxiously of jones how on earth he is going to prove to the satisfaction of the property clerk his right to the possession of the teapot.
"oh, you won't have any difficulty at all," says[pg 144] jones; "this certificate from us, with the judge's 'o.k.' on it, is equivalent to a court order, even if it is not one technically."
"i don't know," answers appleboy doubtfully; "this paper seems to leave it up to me to persuade the intelligence of the property clerk."
"you won't have any trouble," laughs the assistant. "good-by."
mr. appleboy leaves the building once more, and again takes the subway to police headquarters.
"back again?" inquires the property clerk pleasantly.
"i have a certificate from the district attorney, approved by the judge giving you permission to return the teapot to me," says appleboy, shoving the paper through the wicket.
the clerk takes it.
"this isn't a court order," says he. "still, if the woman has skipped her bail and the judgment has been satisfied, i guess we can take a chance and let you have your teapot, provided of course you are properly identified. you see, so far as we know, you may have picked this certificate up on the street. the thing for you to do is to get hold of the officer who made the arrest, and who knows all about the case, and have him identify you."
"how shall i do that?" asks appleboy, very much irritated. "i don't know where he is; i can't go chasing all over the city of new york after police officers; i'm sick of this whole business; you know perfectly well i am silas appleboy, else i shouldn't have this paper, and i shouldn't be around here trying to get that teapot."
"don't be too sure about that," replies the prop[pg 145]erty clerk. "we have had three women here at the same time claiming the same pair of diamond earrings, and each woman looked absolutely respectable. one of them came in a carriage with a footman. we found out afterwards that the earrings didn't belong to any one of them, but to an entirely different person."
appleboy loses all patience. just as he is about to place his hands upon the teapot, presto, it vanishes. two italians and a chinaman, escorted by an officer, now elbow past appleboy, who disconsolately gives them place. he is "up against it" again; there is no help for it; rules are rules and the law is the law. how now to find patrick, the officer! he begins to wish he had been nicer to patrick;—if he had been a little more liberal in the way of cigars at the time the teapot was stolen, things might have been very much easier for him now. he utters an imprecation under his breath against all policemen and police red tape. grinding his teeth, he goes to the nearest telephone booth and asks to be connected with the precinct to which patrick is attached. the operator refers him to 3100 spring, namely, headquarters,—but there he is informed that private citizens may not be connected with police stations. he hangs up the receiver with something almost like an oath, poor vestryman appleboy! let us not be too hard upon him.
it is now half-past eleven o'clock. he takes the car uptown and returns to the station house, but the sergeant informs him that patrick is down in the criminal courts building as a witness in a burglary case. this is the last straw. frenzied, he rushes from the station house, takes another car and sits tensely until once more he is at the criminal courts[pg 146] building. fortunately he has had the forethought to inquire of the sergeant to which of the four parts of the general sessions patrick has been subp?naed, and he now finds that it is the same court-room at the door of which presides his friend of the day before. the doorkeeper greets him genially, and in response to appleboy's inquiries replies, shure, that he knows pat mcginnis;—that pat has been there all the morning, but has just shtepped out over to tom foley's saloon. although appleboy has not been inside the portals of such a place since he was nineteen years old, he frantically inquires its direction, and, fearful lest he lose the object of his search, dashes across the street to the corner bar-room.
the little old gentleman with the shining silk hat sticks his head timidly through the door and observes patrick at the end of the bar crooking his elbow in the customary manner. he draws an inspiration from the sight; with a bland smile he steps up to the bar himself, slaps the officer familiarly on the back and, pulling off his gloves, remarks, "well, pat, old boy, how do you feel? have another on me!"
patrick gazes at him open-mouthed. can this be the stiff, little old bank president he knew six months ago? but there can be no question as to appleboy's intention when he hears the latter order "two rye high-balls and another-for-yourself" of the astonished barkeeper. appleboy toasts patrick, patrick toasts appleboy. patrick produces cigars; appleboy replaces them with others, larger and thicker than any seen at foley's.
"by the way," says appleboy, "step up to police headquarters with me, will you, pat? now that i happen to be down this way, i might as well take that teapot home with me, don't you know."
[pg 147]
"shure," says pat; "court's adjourned by this time, and i can get back by two o'clock all right."
the best of friends, they go up in the subway together to police headquarters. with a bold front and fearless eye appleboy enters the office of the property clerk, produces his certificate from the district attorney, and demands his teapot.
"this officer will identify me," says he.
"shure i indentify him," announces pat.
the clerk takes the certificate, opens the record book and, with a rubber stamp, enters up on the back of the original report the words:
"identified by officer
as owner of the property."
"write your name there," says he to patrick, and mcginnis laboriously scrawls his name between the lines.
the clerk now disappears into an adjoining room, presently returning with an object about the size of a football, wrapped in coarse paper, tied with a multitude of strings and bearing a tag.
"here you are, sir," says he, opening the door in the wire grating and passing the football to appleboy, whose heart beats wildly.
the clerk then stamps the words "delivered on identification of officer" upon his record book, closes the same with a slam and turns aside to other more important business. how simple it all is when you once know how to do it!
"easy, ain't it?" remarks pat.
"easy as rolling off a log," answers appleboy with a grim smile.
