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THE FINANCIER
said he had? Who can tell? Could any human being wind through
all the mazes of the complicated bookkeeping system which he ran,
and actually tell? The best answer to that is that if he did purchase
the certifi cates he intended that it should make no difference to
the city, for he made no effort to put the certifi cates in the sinkingfund, where they belonged. His counsel says, and he says, that he
didn’t have to until the fi rst of the month, although the law says
that he must do it at once, and he knew well enough that legally
he was bound to do it. His counsel says, and he says, that he didn’t
know he was going to fail. Hence there was no need of worrying
about it. I wonder if any of you gentlemen really believed that? Had
he ever asked for a check like that so quick before in his life? In all
the history of these nefarious transactions was there another incident like that? You know there wasn’t. He had never before, on
any occasion, asked personally for a check for anything in this offi ce, and yet on this occasion he did it. Why? Why should he ask
for it this time? A few hours more, according to his own statement,
wouldn’t have made any difference one way or the other, would it?
He could have sent a boy for it, as usual. That was the way it had
always been done before. Why anything different now? I’ll tell you
why! [Shannon suddenly shouted, varying his voice tremendously.]
I’ll tell you why! He knew that he was a ruined man! He knew that
his last semi-legitimate avenue of escape – the favor of George W.
Stener – had been closed to him! He knew that honestly, by open
agreement, he could not extract another single dollar from the treasury of the city of Philadelphia. He knew that if he left the offi ce
without this check and sent a boy for it, the aroused city treasurer would have time to inform his clerks, and that then no further
money could be obtained. That’s why! That’s why, gentlemen, if you
really want to know.
«Now, gentlemen of the jury, I am about done with my arraignment of this fi ne, honorable, virtuous citizen whom the counsel for
the defense, Mr. Steger, tells you you cannot possibly convict without doing a great injustice. All I have to say is that you look to me
401
THEODORE DREISER
like sane, intelligent men – just the sort of men that I meet everywhere in the ordinary walks of life, doing an honorable American
business in an honorable American way. Now, gentlemen of the jury
[he was very soft-spoken now], all I have to say is that if, after all you
have heard and seen here to-day, you still think that Mr. Frank A.
Cowperwood is an honest, honorable man – that he didn’t steal,
willfully and knowingly, sixty thousand dollars from the Philadelphia city treasury; that he had actually bought the certifi cates he
said he had, and had intended to put them in the sinking-fund, as
he said he did, then don’t you dare to do anything except turn him
loose, and that speedily, so that he can go on back to-day into Third
Street, and start to straighten out his much-entangled fi nancial affairs. It is the only thing for honest, conscientious men to do – to
turn him instantly loose into the heart of this community, so that
some of the rank injustice that my opponent, Mr. Steger, alleges has
been done him will be a little made up to him. You owe him, if that
is the way you feel, a prompt acknowledgment of his innocence.
Don’t worry about George W. Stener. His guilt is established by his
own confession. He admits he is guilty. He will be sentenced without trial later on. But this man – he says he is an honest, honorable
man. He says he didn’t think he was going to fail. He says he used
all that threatening, compelling, terrifying language, not because he
was in danger of failing, but because he didn’t want the bother of
looking further for aid. What do you think? Do you really think
that he had purchased sixty thousand dollars more of certifi cates
for the sinking-fund, and that he was entitled to the money? If so,
why didn’t he put them in the sinking-fund? They’re not there
now, and the sixty thousand dollars is gone. Who got it? The Girard National Bank, where he was overdrawn to the extent of one
hundred thousand dollars! Did it get it and forty thousand dollars
more in other checks and certifi cates? Certainly. Why? Do you suppose the Girard National Bank might be in any way grateful for this
last little favor before he closed his doors? Do you think that President Davison, whom you saw here testifying so kindly in this case
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THE FINANCIER
feels at all friendly, and that that may possibly – I don’t say that it
does – explain his very kindly interpretation of Mr. Cowperwood’s
condition? It might be. You can think as well along that line as I can.
Anyhow, gentlemen, President Davison says Mr. Cowperwood is
an honorable, honest man, and so does his counsel, Mr. Steger. You
have heard the testimony. Now you think it over. If you want to turn
him loose – turn him loose. [He waved his hand wearily.] You’re
the judges. I wouldn’t; but then I am merely a hard-working lawyer – one person, one opinion. You may think differently – that’s
your business. [He waved his hand suggestively, almost contemptuously.] However, I’m through, and I thank you for your courtesy.
Gentlemen, the decision rests with you».
He turned away grandly, and the jury stirred – so did the idle
spectators in the court. Judge Payderson sighed a sigh of relief.
It was now quite dark, and the fl aring gas forms in the court were
all brightly lighted. Outside one could see that it was snowing.
The judge stirred among his papers wearily, and turning to the jurors solemnly, began his customary explanation of the law, after
which they fi led out to the jury-room.
Cowperwood turned to his father who now came over across
the fast-emptying court, and said:
«Well, we’ll know now in a little while».
«Yes», replied Cowperwood, Sr., a little wearily. «I hope it comes
out right. I saw Butler back there a little while ago».
«Did you?» queried Cowperwood, to whom this had a peculiar
interest.
«Yes», replied his father. «He’s just gone».
So, Cowperwood thought, Butler was curious enough as to his
fate to want to come here and watch him tried. Shannon was his
tool. Judge Payderson was his emissary, in a way. He, Cowperwood,
might defeat him in the matter of his daughter, but it was not
so easy to defeat him here unless the jury should happen to take
a sympathetic attitude. They might convict him, and then Butler’s
Judge Payderson would have the privilege of sentencing him – giv-
403
THEODORE DREISER
ing him the maximum sentence. That would not be so nice – fi ve
years! He cooled a little as he thought of it, but there was no use
worrying about what had not yet happened. Steger came forward
and told him that his bail was now ended – had been the moment
the jury left the room – and that he was at this moment actually in
the care of the sheriff, of whom he knew – Sheriff Adlai Jaspers. Unless he were acquitted by the jury, Steger added, he would have to
remain in the sheriff’s care until an application for a certifi cate of
reasonable doubt could be made and acted upon.
«It would take all of fi ve days, Frank», Steger said, «but Jaspers
isn’t a bad sort. He’d be reasonable. Of course if we’re lucky you
won’t have to visit him. You will have to go with this bailiff now,
though. Then if things come out right we’ll go home. Say, I’d like to
win this case», he said. «I’d like to give them the laugh and see you
do it. I consider you’ve been pretty badly treated, and I think I made
that perfectly clear. I can reverse this verdict on a dozen grounds if
they happen to decide against you».
He and Cowperwood and the latter’s father now stalked off
with the sheriff’s subordinate – a small man by the name of «Eddie»
Zanders, who had approached to take charge. They entered a small
room called the pen at the back of the court, where all those on
trial whose liberty had been forfeited by the jury’s leaving the room
had to wait pending its return. It was a dreary, high-ceiled, foursquare place, with a window looking out into Chestnut Street, and
a second door leading off into somewhere – one had no idea where.
It was dingy, with a worn wooden fl oor, some heavy, plain, wooden
benches lining the four sides, no pictures or ornaments of any kind.
A single two-arm gas-pipe descended from the center of the ceiling. It was permeated by a peculiarly stale and pungent odor, obviously redolent of all the fl otsam and jetsam of life – criminal and
innocent – that had stood or sat in here from time to time, waiting
patiently to learn what a deliberating fate held in store.
Cowperwood was, of course, disgusted; but he was too self-reliant and capable to show it. All his life he had been immaculate,
404
THE FINANCIER
almost fastidious in his care of himself. Here he was coming, perforce, in contact with a form of life which jarred upon him greatly.
Steger, who was beside him, made some comforting, explanatory,
apologetic remarks.
«Not as nice as it might be», he said, «but you won’t mind waiting a little while. The jury won’t be long, I fancy».
«That may not help me», he replied, walking to the window. Afterward he added: «What must be, must be».
His father winced. Suppose Frank was on the verge of a long
prison term, which meant an atmosphere like this? Heavens! For
a moment, he trembled, then for the fi rst time in years he made
a silent prayer.
CHAPTER XLIV
Meanwhile the great argument had been begun in the juryroom, and all the points that had been meditatively speculated
upon in the jury-box were now being openly discussed.
It is amazingly interesting to see how a jury will waver and speculate in a case like this – how curious and uncertain is the process by
which it makes up its so-called mind. So-called truth is a nebulous
thing at best; facts are capable of such curious inversion and interpretation, honest and otherwise. The jury had a strongly complicated problem before it, and it went over it and over it.
Juries reach not so much defi nite conclusions as verdicts, in
a curious fashion and for curious reasons. Very often a jury will
have concluded little so far as its individual members are concerned and yet it will have reached a verdict. The matter of
time, as all lawyers know, plays a part in this. Juries, speaking of
the members collectively and frequently individually, object to
the amount of time it takes to decide a case. They do not enjoy
sitting and deliberating over a problem unless it is tremendously
fascinating. The ramifi cations or the mystery of a syllogism can
become a weariness and a bore. The jury-room itself may and frequently does become a dull agony.
On the other hand, no jury contemplates a disagreement with
any degree of satisfaction. There is something so inherently constructive in the human mind that to leave a problem unsolved is
plain misery. It haunts the average individual like any other important task left unfi nished. Men in a jury-room, like those scientifi cally
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THE FINANCIER
demonstrated atoms of a crystal which scientists and philosophers
love to speculate upon, like fi nally to arrange themselves into an orderly and artistic whole, to present a compact, intellectual front, to be
whatever they have set out to be, properly and rightly – a compact,
sensible jury. One sees this same instinct magnifi cently displayed in
every other phase of nature – in the drifting of sea-wood to the Sargasso Sea, in the geometric interrelation of air-bubbles on the surface of still water, in the marvelous unreasoned architecture of so
many insects and atomic forms which make up the substance and
the texture of this world. It would seem as though the physical substance of life – this apparition of form which the eye detects and calls
real were shot through with some vast subtlety that loves order, that
is order. The atoms of our so-called being, in spite of our so-called
reason – the dreams of a mood – know where to go and what to
do. They represent an order, a wisdom, a willing that is not of us.
They build orderly in spite of us. So the subconscious spirit of a jury.
At the same time, one does not forget the strange hypnotic effect of
one personality on another, the varying effects of varying types on
each other, until a solution – to use the word in its purely chemical
sense – is reached. In a jury-room the thought or determination of
one or two or three men, if it be defi nite enough, is likely to pervade the whole room and conquer the reason or the opposition of
the majority. One man «standing out» for the defi nite thought that
is in him is apt to become either the triumphant leader of a pliant
mass or the brutally battered target of a fl aming, concentrated intellectual fi re. Men despise dull opposition that is without reason.
In a jury-room, of all places, a man is expected to give a reason for
the faith that is in him – if one is demanded. It will not do to say,
«I cannot agree». Jurors have been known to fi ght. Bitter antagonisms lasting for years have been generated in these close quarters.
Recalcitrant jurors have been hounded commercially in their local
spheres for their unreasoned oppositions or conclusions.
After reaching the conclusion that Cowperwood unquestionably deserved some punishment, there was wrangling as to wheth-
407
THEODORE DREISER
er the verdict should be guilty on all four counts, as charged in
the indictment. Since they did not understand how to differentiate between the various charges very well, they decided it should
be on all four, and a recommendation to mercy added. Afterward
this last was eliminated, however; either he was guilty or he was
not. The judge could see as well as they could all the extenuating
circumstances – perhaps better. Why tie his hands? As a rule no
attention was paid to such recommendations, anyhow, and it only
made the jury look wabbly.
So, fi nally, at ten minutes after twelve that night, they were
ready to return a verdict; and Judge Payderson, who, because of
his interest in the case and the fact that he lived not so far away,
had decided to wait up this long, was recalled. Steger and Cowperwood were sent for. The court-room was fully lighted. The bailiff,
the clerk, and the stenographer were there. The jury fi led in, and
Cowperwood, with Steger at his right, took his position at the gate
which gave into the railed space where prisoners always stand to
hear the verdict and listen to any commentary of the judge. He was
accompanied by his father, who was very nervous.
For the fi rst time in his life he felt as though he were walking in
his sleep. Was this the real Frank Cowperwood of two months before – so wealthy, so progressive, so sure? Was this only December
5th or 6th now (it was after midnight)? Why was it the jury had
deliberated so long? What did it mean? Here they were now, standing and gazing solemnly before them; and here now was Judge Payderson, mounting the steps of his rostrum, his frizzled hair standing out in a strange, attractive way, his familiar bailiff rapping for
order. He did not look at Cowperwood – it would not be courteous – but at the jury, who gazed at him in return. At the words of
the clerk, «Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?»
the foreman spoke up, «We have».
«Do you fi nd the defendant guilty or not guilty?»
«We fi nd the defendant guilty as charged in the indictment».
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THE FINANCIER
How had they come to do this? Because he had taken a check
for sixty thousand dollars which did not belong to him? But in reality it did. Good Lord, what was sixty thousand dollars in the sum
total of all the money that had passed back and forth between him
and George W. Stener? Nothing, nothing! A mere bagatelle in its
way; and yet here it had risen up, this miserable, insignifi cant check,
and become a mountain of opposition, a stone wall, a prison-wall
barring his further progress. It was astonishing. He looked around
him at the court-room. How large and bare and cold it was! Still he
was Frank A. Cowperwood. Why should he let such queer thoughts
disturb him? His fi ght for freedom and privilege and restitution was
not over yet. Good heavens! It had only begun. In fi ve days he would
be out again on bail. Steger would take an appeal. He would be out,
and he would have two long months in which to make an additional
fi ght. He was not down yet. He would win his liberty. This jury was
all wrong. A higher court would say so. It would reverse their verdict, and he knew it. He turned to Steger, where the latter was having the clerk poll the jury, in the hope that some one juror had been
over-persuaded, made to vote against his will.
«Is that your verdict?» he heard the clerk ask of Philip
Moultrie, juror No. 1.
«It is», replied that worthy, solemnly.
«Is that your verdict?» The clerk was pointing to Simon
Glassberg.
«Yes, sir».
«Is that your verdict?» He pointed to Fletcher Norton.
«Yes».
So it went through the whole jury. All the men answered fi rmly and clearly, though Steger thought it might barely be possible
that one would have changed his mind. The judge thanked them
and told them that in view of their long services this night, they
were dismissed for the term. The only thing remaining to be done
now was for Steger to persuade Judge Payderson to grant a stay of
409
THEODORE DREISER
sentence pending the hearing of a motion by the State Supreme
Court for a new trial.
The Judge looked at Cowperwood very curiously as Steger made
this request in proper form, and owing to the importance of the case
and the feeling he had that the Supreme Court might very readily
grant a certifi cate of reasonable doubt in this case, he agreed. There
was nothing left, therefore, but for Cowperwood to return at this
late hour with the deputy sheriff to the county jail, where he must
now remain for fi ve days at least – possibly longer.
The jail in question, which was known locally as Moyamensing
Prison, was located at Tenth and Reed Streets, and from an architectural and artistic point of view was not actually displeasing to
the eye. It consisted of a central portion – prison, residence for
the sheriff or what you will – three stories high, with a battlemented
cornice and a round battlemented tower about one-third as high as
the central portion itself, and two wings, each two stories high, with
battlemented turrets at either end, giving it a highly castellated and
consequently, from the American point of view, a very prison-like appearance. The facade of the prison, which was not more than thirtyfi ve feet high for the central portion, nor more than twenty-fi ve feet
for the wings, was set back at least a hundred feet from the street, and
was continued at either end, from the wings to the end of the street
block, by a stone wall all of twenty feet high. The structure was not
severely prison-like, for the central portion was pierced by rather
large, unbarred apertures hung on the two upper stories with curtains, and giving the whole front a rather pleasant and residential
air. The wing to the right, as one stood looking in from the street,
was the section known as the county jail proper, and was devoted to
the care of prisoners serving short-term sentences on some judicial order. The wing to the left was devoted exclusively to the care
and control of untried prisoners. The whole building was built of
a smooth, light-colored stone, which on a snowy night like this, with
the few lamps that were used in it glowing feebly in the dark, presented an eery, fantastic, almost supernatural appearance.
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