Accordin’ to the latest developments, men, especially rich men, seem to be very unwillin’ to serve on juries—coroners’ juries, grand juries, any kind of juries–and shrewd men like Cunningham and his set have availed ‘emselves of this unwillin’ness to their pecuniary advantage. Yet, after all, from what I have heard from Tom Dunlap and Casper C. Childs, who have been connected with the Department of Jurors for many years, jury duty–at any rate in a Grand Jury room–has its “compensations,” it’s humor, romance, and adventure.
All sorts of people come to the Grand Jury room. It is quite a place to study human nature. One of the hardest customers a Grand Jury ever had to deal with was a man who didn’t come before it to complain at all, but on the contrary to withdraw a complaint.
He was a rich merchant, and had been robbed; but the thief’s family had offered to return the amount stolen if he wouldn’t prosecute, so he wanted the Grand Jury to let him withdraw the complaint. But the G. J. wouldn’t do it, and then the rich merchant commenced to kick and fume; he wasn’t accustomed to bein’ denied. He saw one of his clerks servin’ on the jury, and he even went so far as to try and first cajole and then threaten that clerk. But the clerk was one of the most determined of the whole lot against him, and the merchant had to prosecute after all. But he came out ahead of his clerk at last–as rich men always can. Within three months the merchant had, on some pretext or other, but really on account of this grand jury racket, discharged his clerk.
Another hard customer came before the grand jury pretendin’ to be impelled by a high sense of duty to the Central Railroad Company, alleging some dishonest practices on the part of a baggage-master. This complainant declared that he was so sorry to be obliged by his conscience to make complaint, he had liked the delinquent baggage-master so much, and all that. This sort of talk got the members of the Grand Jury to respect him and to pay attention to his testimony. He had a lot of witnesses ready, but each witness made his case weaker and weaker, and finally it leaked out that he had been, and was now, an applicant for the very place the baggage-master he complained against was holdin’.
The whole thing was a job on the part of the complainant to make the Grand Jury his monkey to pull his chestnuts out of the fire. But this idea of makin’ a monkey out of a grand jury didn’t pan out, and the complainant went off with a flea in his ear instead.
An interesting case was that of an old woman, a German, who had complained against a girl in her employ for stealin’. The girl had subsequently confessed her guilt, although she could not restore the stolen money, havin’ spent it. But the thief was so young and seemed so penitent, and begged so hard to have one more chance given her for reformation, that the German woman now came before the Grand Jury to withdraw the charge.
There was no compoundin’ a felony about this case. No tamperin’ for selfish ends with justice. And the German woman pleaded in behalf of her servant girl as eloquently as if she was pleadin’ for herself. She begged, she implored not to be obliged to press the charge. She begged this as the greatest favor to herself, with tears in her eyes. She wasn’t at all an educated woman, had never made a set speech in her life. But no orator ever spoke more eloquently than she did on this occasion, for she spoke her soul out. She put her soul into her eyes and voice, into every motion. It was very affectin’. All the more so that it was for all for somebody else, for one who had injured her.
The Grand Jury all felt warmly disposed to grant her request, and let her withdraw the charge, especially the foreman, who had been very much affected by her appeals to him personally. Still there was a disposition to confer together before decidin’ definitely on the matter, and the German woman was requested to withdraw while the G. J. deliberated. Before withdrawin’ the woman absolutely fell on her knees before the foreman, pleadin’ with uplifted hands and streamin’ eyes not to be compelled to press a charge which would consign one of her own sex to imprisonment and disgrace.
As was to be expected, the deliberations didn’t last long. It was in five minutes resolved without a dissentin’ voice that the old woman’s prayer should be granted, and she was brought in again and so informed. Had she been told that she was suddenly left the heiress of all the Astors she wouldn’t have been more delighted. Tears choked her utterance at first, then she spoke a few broken words of gratitude and, at last, rushing to the foreman, as the representative of the rest, the good old German woman kissed him with a soundin’ smack on the cheek, invoked solemnly God’s blessing on the whole Grand Jury and forthwith walked off as fast as her old limbs could carry her, to bear the good news to the young girl whose whole future she had us probably saved.
Another curious and pathetic incident may be here recorded. Some fifteen years ago a poor Irish woman, a widow, had had stolen from her her husband’s horse and cart, all the property he had left her. She made her complaint before the Grand Jury and was referred to the courts of justice. There in due time the thief was brought to trial and was punished. The widow also recovered her cart, but the horse was missin’.
Some days after this disposition of her case she made her appearance in the Grand Jury room again, and when asked what she wanted now, she said, eagerly, “I want my horse.” In vain the foreman explained to her that the Grand Jury room was not a stable. She still persisted in her mournful, eager cry, “I want my horse.”
In a few days the poor widow came to the Grand Jury once more, sadder than ever, still moanin’ out, “I want my horse.” She would not be reasoned with or pacified, but pitifully implored the foreman to restore her missin’ property, “I want my horse.”
And thus it went on for several weeks, till the “horse-woman of the Grand Jury” became quite a well-known character. Like the waves in the poem she kept on sayin’, ever the same sad thing, “I want my horse!” I want my horse!”
Really there was somethin’ extremely touchin’, though very annoyin’, in the woman’s plaintive cry, somethin’ very pitiful in her blind faith that it was within the Grand Jury’s power to restore her horse.
For months that poor, wan-eyed Irish woman haunted the outside of the Grand Jury room, whether the body was in session or not, moanin’ on, “I want my horse,” till finally her case bein’ investigated, it was decided that the woman was a fittin’ inmate of the insane asylum on the [Blackwell’s] Island, where she died still moaning, “I want my horse.”
Another sad case was that of a woman in the Fourth Ward who came to complain against her husband. She brought in her hand a piece of stove-pipe, all battered, with which he had beaten her. One eye had been put out by him, and her face was all cuts and bruises; but it was her little speech before the Grand Jury that most impressed it. It was one of the most terrible speeches ever spoken, containin’ so much fearful truth in such few words, spoken in such a weak voice, but with such too evident truth.
“Do you wish to press this complaint against your husband?” asked the foreman of the woman. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I do–I must. We have been married ten years and they have been ten years of hell. He beats me by day; he drives me out by night; he starves me always, and is always cruel; he earns nothing himself; he takes all the money I earn, and he spends it all in drink. I cannot live with him any longer; I have had him before the magistrate several times; each time he promises to treat me better; each time I have let him off, and each time he has treated me worse than ever; he will not leave me; he will not let me leave him; we shall have no peace until he is in prison or I am dead.” And she did not seem to care which.
Nothin’ I have ever read strikes me as containin’ as much domestic misery as this in the same number of words. There is more hell to the line in it than in anythin’ I have ever heard of.
Once a man whose nose had been partly bitten off in a political discussion in a barroom came before the Grand Jury anxious to “let up” on the man who had bitten his nose. It seems that although the injured party missed his nose very much, he was willin’ to put up with the loss of a part of it rather than lose the young lady to whom he was “engaged,” and who was a sister of the man who had bitten him in the barroom. It was a case of actual nose versus probable spouse, and as the spouse was perfect and entire and young and good-lookin’, and the nose had never been very handsome at the best, always greasy and red, and was forever after this imperfect and incomplete, why, it was kind of natural after all that he should prefer delights with a spouse to damages for a nose, so he applied to the Grand Jury to let him dismiss his complaint. The G. J. had some fun over the matter first, the great point to decide bein’ whether a man’s nose or a man’s sweetheart was of the most consequence to him. It was a singular fact that those members of the G. J. who were married men seemed to incline to the idea that his nose was really of more importance to a man than his sweetheart; whereas, the younger or unmarried members of that august body gave the sweetheart the preference; but the foreman of the G. J., who had had three wives, and was now rumored to be courtin’ a possible fourth, could not consistently go back on himself, so he vehemently argued that a sweetheart was worth any number of–say at least three or four—noses. He was met, however, by the strong argument that a man might readily get three, or even four, sweethearts, but could only reasonably expect to have one nose–worth anythin’.
Well, the G. J. had a half hour’s fun over the matter, pokin’ jokes at and quizzin’ each other, and at last they granted the noseless man’s request, and with many thanks the latter departed to procure an artificial nose and a real wife. Perhaps before he got through he found the wife as “artificial” as the nose.
On another occasion an attempt was made to bribe the Grand Jury, and it succeeded, although there was no money used, and any other decent body of men would have got bribed just the same way.
A lady had been robbed and her husband came before the Grand Jury and stated his wife’s case. It didn’t impress the G. J. favorably–at least, the husband didn’t. He was a stupid, supercilious, purse-proud chap, and he forgot important points in the evidence, and altogether the G. J. felt inclined to dismiss the case. But the wife herself was brought in and turned out to be the one of the neatest, prettiest, littlest, loveliest, most bewitchin’ bewildering bits of petticoat bedevilment that ever wore diamond rings, striped stockin’s and French gaiters.
And from the moment she appeared the Grand Jury saw things in a completely new light. The foreman fixed his hair, and adjusted his collar, and brushed his hat, and titivated himself all over; the rest of the members followed his example. The utmost attention was paid to the lady statements–everybody saw things just as she wanted ‘em to see ‘em. She smiled–the foreman smiled, the other men smiled, and the case that would have been decided unanimously against the husband was decided unanimously in favor of the wife.
And yet they tell us that the jury system is the palladium of our liberties!
[Editor’s notes: In early February, 1883, about a week before this column was published, lawyer William T. McGrath and Patrick Cunningham, a clerk in the office of the Commissioner of Juries, were arrested by New York Police Superintendent Thomas Byrnes. McGrath had been bribing Cunningham to take selected names off the lists of prospective jurors, for about twelve dollars each.]
