By Advice of Counsel
_sheesh kabab_. It was about nine o'clock in the evening, and they were
talking politics and drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes.
Suddenly Kasheed Hassoun, accompanied by a smaller and much darker man,
had entered and striding up to the table exclaimed in a threatening
manner: "Where is he who did say that he would spit upon the beard of my
bishop?"
Thereupon Sardi Babu had risen and answered: "Behold, I am he."
Immediately Kasheed Hassoun, and while his accomplice held them at bay
with a revolver, had leaned across the table and grabbing Sardi by the
throat had broken his neck. Then the smaller man had fired off his
pistol and both of them had run away. The simplest story ever told.
There was everything the law required to send any murderer to the chair,
and little Mr. Pepperill had a diagram made of the inside of the
restaurant and a photograph of the outside of it, and stamped the
indictment in purple ink: Ready for Trial.
Contemporaneously Mr. Tutt was giving his final instructions to Mr.
Bonnie Doon, his stage manager, director of rehearsals and general
superintendent of arrangements in all cases requiring an extra-artistic
touch.
"It's too bad we can't cart a few hundred cubic feet of the Sahara into
the court room and divert the Nile down Center Street, but I guess you
can produce sufficient atmosphere," he said.
"I could all right--if I had a camel," remarked Bonnie.
"Atmosphere is necessary," continued Mr. Tutt. "Real atmosphere! Have
'em in native costume--beads, red slippers, hookahs, hoochi-koochis."
"I get you," replied Mr. Doon. "You want a regular Turkish village.
Well, we'll have it all right. I'll engage the entire Streets of Cairo
production from Coney and have Franklin Street crowded with goats, asses
and dromedaries. I might even have a caravan pitch its tents alongside
the Tombs."
"You can't lay it on too strong," declared Mr. Tutt. "But you don't need
to go off Washington Street. And, Bonnie, remember--I want every blessed
Turk, Greek, Armenian, Jew, Arab, Egyptian and Syrian that saw Sardi
Babu kill Kasheed Hassoun."
"You mean who saw Kasheed Hassoun kill Sardi Babu," corrected Bonnie.
"Well--whichever way it was," agreed Mr. Tutt.
When at length the great day of the trial arrived Judge Wetherell,
ascending the bench in Part Thirteen, was immediately conscious of a
subtle Oriental smell that emanated from no one could say where, but
which none the less permeated the entire court room. It seemed to be a
curious compound of incense, cabbage, garlic and eau de cologne, with a
suggestion of camel. The room was entirely filled with Syrians. One row
of benches was occupied by a solemn group of white-bearded patriarchs
who looked as if they had momentarily paused on a pilgrimage to Mecca.
All over the room rose the murmur of purring Arabic. The stenographer
was examining a copy of Meraat-ul-Gharb, the clerk a copy of El Zeman,
and in front of the judge's chair had been laid a copy of Al-Hoda.
His honor gave a single sniff, cast his eye over the picturesque throng,
and said: "Pst! Captain! Open that window!" Then he picked up the
calendar and read: "'People versus Kasheed Hassoun--Murder.'"
The stenographer was humming to himself:
_Bagdad is a town in Turkey
On a camel tall and jerky_.
"Are both sides ready to try this case?" inquired Judge Wetherell,
choking a yawn. He was a very stout judge and he could not help yawning.
Deputy Assistant District Attorney Pepperill and Mr. Tutt rose in
unison, declaring that they were. At or about this same moment the
small door in the rear of the room opened and an officer appeared,
leading in Kasheed Hassoun. He was an imposing man, over six feet in
height, of dignified carriage, serious mien, and finely chiseled
features. Though he was dressed as a European there was nevertheless
something indefinably suggestive of the East in the cut of his clothes;
he wore no waistcoat and round his waist was wound a strip of crimson
cloth. His black eyes glinted through lowering brows, wildly, almost
fiercely, and he strode haughtily beside his guard like some unbroken
stallion of the desert.
"Well, you may as well proceed to select a jury," directed the court,
putting on his glasses and studying his copy of Al-Hoda with interest.
Presently he beckoned to Pepperill.
"Have you seen this?" he asked.
"No, Your Honor. What is it?"
"It's a newspaper published by these people," explained His Honor.
"Rather amusing, isn't it?"
"I didn't know they had any special newspaper of their own," admitted
Pepperill.
"They've got eight right in New York," interjected the stenographer.
"I notice that this paper is largely composed of advertisements,"
commented Wetherell. "But the advertisers are apparently scattered all
over the world--Chicago; Pittsburgh; Canton; Winnipeg; Albuquerque;
Brooklyn; Tripoli; Greenville, Texas; Pueblo; Lawrence, Massachusetts;
Providence, Rhode Island; Fall River; Detroit--"
"Here's one from Roxbury, Massachusetts, and another from Mexico City,"
remarked the clerk delightedly.
"And here's one from Paris, France," added the stenographer. "Say! Some
travelers!"
"Well, go on getting the jury," said the judge, yawning again and
handing the paper to the clerk.
At that moment Mr. Salim Zahoul, the interpreter procured by Mr.
Pepperill, approached, bowed and, twisting his purple mustache,
addressed the court: "Your Excellence: I haf to zay dat dees papaire eet
haf articles on zis affair--ze _memkaha_--zat are not diplomatique."
Judge Wetherell blinked at him.
"Who's this man?" he demanded.
"That's the interpreter," explained W.M.P.
"Interpreter!" answered the court. "I can't understand a word he says!"
"He was the best I could get," apologized Pepperill, while the
countenance of Mr. Zahoul blazed with wrath and humiliation. "It's very
difficult to get a fluent interpreter in Arabic."
"Well, just interpret what _he_ says to _me_, will you?" kindly
requested His Honor.
"I zay," suddenly exploded Zahoul--"dees papaire eet half contemptuous
article on ze _menkaha_ zat dees Kasheed Hassoun not kill dees Sardi
Babu!"
"He says," translated Pepperill, "that the newspaper contains an
indiscreet article in favor of the defense. I had no idea there would be
any improper attempt to influence the jury."
"What difference does it make, anyway?" inquired His Honor. "You don't
expect any juryman is going to read that thing, do you? Why, it looks as
if a bumblebee had fallen into an ink bottle and then had a fit all
over the front page."
"I don't suppose--" began Pepperill.
"Go on and get your jury!" admonished the court.
So the lion and the lamb in the shape of Mr. Tutt and Pepperill
proceeded to select twelve gentlemen to pass upon the issue who had
never been nearer to Syria than the Boardwalk at Atlantic City and who
only with the utmost attention could make head or tail of what Mr. Salim
Zahoul averred that the witnesses were trying to say. Moreover, most of
the talesmen evinced a profound distrust of their own ability to do
justice between the People and the defendant and a curious desire to be
relieved from service. However, at last the dozen had been chosen and
sworn, the congestion of the court room slightly relieved, Mr. Zahoul
somewhat appeased, and Mr. William Montague Pepperill rose to outline
his very simple case to the jury.
There was, he explained, no more difficulty in administering justice in
the case of a foreigner than of anyone else. All were equal in the eyes
of the law--equally presumed to be innocent, equally responsible when
proved guilty. And he would prove Kasheed Hassoun absolutely
guilty--guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, beyond any doubt. He would
produce five--five reputable witnesses who would swear that Hassoun had
murdered Sardi Babu; and he prophesied that he would unhesitatingly
demand at the end of the trial such an unequivocal, fearless, honest
expression of their collective opinion as would permanently fix Mr.
Kasheed Hassoun so that he could do no more harm. He expressed it more
elegantly but that was the gist of it. He himself was as sincere and
honest in his belief in his ability to establish the truth of his claim
as he was in the justice of his cause. Alas, he was far too young to
realize that there is a vast difference between knowing the truth and
being able to demonstrate what it is!
In proper order he called the photographer who had taken the picture of
the restaurant, the draftsman who had made the diagram of the interior,
the policeman who had arrested Hassoun, the doctor who had performed the
official autopsy upon the unfortunate Babu, and the five Syrians who had
been present when the crime was perpetrated. Each swore by all that was
holy that Kasheed Hassoun had done exactly as outlined by Assistant
District Attorney Pepperill--and swore it word for word, _verbatim et
literatim, in iisdem verbis, sic_, and yet again exactly. Their
testimony mortised and tenoned in a way to rejoice a cabinet-maker's
heart. And at first to the surprise and later to the dismay of Mr.
Pepperill, old man Tutt asked not one of them a single question about
the murder. Instead he merely inquired in a casual way where they came
from, how they got there, what they did for a living, and whether they
had ever made any contradictory statement as to what had occurred, and
as his cross-examination of Mr. Habu Kahoots was typical of all the rest
it may perhaps be set forth as an example, particularly as Mr. Kahoots
spoke English, which the others did not.
"And den," asserted Mr. Kahoots stolidly, "Kasheed Hassoun, he grab heem
by ze troat and break hees neck."
He was a short, barrel-shaped man with curly ringlets, fat, bulging
cheeks, heavy double chin and enormous paunch, and he wore a green
worsted waistcoat and his fingers were laden with golden rings.
"Ah!" said Mr. Tutt complaisantly. "You saw all that exactly as you have
described it?"
"Yes, sair!"
"Where were you born?"
"Acre, Syria."
"How long have you been in the United States?"
"Tirty years."
"Where do you live?"
"Augusta, Georgia."
"What's your business?"
Mr. Kahoots visibly expanded.
"I have street fair and carnival of my own. I have electric theater, old
plantation, Oriental show, snake exhibit and merry-go-round."
"Well, well!" exclaimed Mr. Tutt. "You are certainly a capitalist! I
hope you are not financially overextended!"
Mr. Pepperill looked pained, not knowing just how to prevent such
jocoseness on the part of his adversary.
"I object," he muttered feebly.
"Quite properly!" agreed Mr. Tutt. "Now, Mr. Kahoots, are you a citizen
of the United States?"
Mr. Kahoots looked aggrieved.
"Me? No! Me no citizen. I go back sometime Acre and build moving-picture
garden and ice-cream palace."
"I thought so," commented Mr. Tutt. "Now what, pray, were you doing in
the Washington Street restaurant?"
"Eating _kibbah arnabeiah_ and _mamoul_."
"I mean if you live in Augusta how did you happen to be in New York at
precisely that time?"
"Eh?"
"How you come in New York?" translated Mr. Tutt, while the jury laughed.
"Just come."
"But why?"
"Just come."
"Yes, yes; but you didn't come on just to be present at the murder, did
you?"
Kahoots grinned.
"I just come to walk up and down."
"Where--walk up and down?"
"On Washington Street. I spend the winter. I do nothing. I rich man."
"How long did you stay when you just came on?"
"Tree days. Then I go back."
"Why did you go back?"
"I dunno. Just go back."
Mr. Tutt sighed. The jury gave signs of impatience.
"Look here!" he demanded. "How many times have you gone over your story
with the district attorney?"
"Nevvair."
"What?"
"I nevvair see heem."