For the first time Mr. Picton smiled, ever so briefly, at the twelve faces before him. “But what is your responsibility, gentlemen?” he asked, his face going straight again. “To weigh the evidence and the testimony which will be presented to you by the state, as well as the defense. Nothing less-and nothing more. The counsel for the defense will ask you to believe that he does not intend to work upon your emotions and your natural sympathies, only that he wishes to present to you as clear and honest an argument as possible, so that if you decide that this woman is guilty the responsibility will be yours and yours alone. But, gentlemen, our jury system has been centuries perfecting a means of ensuring that no one man would ever feel that he held the fate of another in his hands in imitation of the Almighty. Your responsibility is only to weigh what is presented to you. It is the responsibility of the counsel for the defense and the responsibility of the state to adequately prepare and communicate their arguments. If you find the accused not guilty, then the responsibility is not yours-it belongs to the state. To me, gentlemen. And what is true of one side is true of the other. You are not the Inquisition of old, commissioned and empowered to arbitrarily decide the fate of a fellow human being. If you were, then indeed, you should bear the responsibility for what happens here. But that is not your commission. Your task is simply to listen-to the evidence, the witnesses, and the voice of doubt that is inside each of you. If I cannot silence that voice to a reasonable extent, then you must decide against the state. And believe me, gentlemen, it is the state that will bear that responsibility.” Mr. Picton turned and glanced at Mr. Darrow as he added, “That, at any rate, is the way things are done in the state of New York.”
Returning to his table, Mr. Picton sat down with a heavy breath, then took out his watch, placed it before him, and fixed his eyes on it.
Judge Brown studied Mr. Picton for a few seconds, with a look that combined annoyance with what you might call grudging respect; then he turned to the table on the other side of the room. “Mr. Darrow? Would the defense care to make its introductory remarks now, or will it wait until the opening of its own case?”
Mr. Darrow stood up slowly, giving the judge a small smile as the usual lock of hair fell over his forehead. “I’ve just been considering that question, Your Honor,” he said, his voice sounding deeper and smoother than ever. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any advice for me?”
The crowd chuckled quietly, causing Judge Brown to grab his gavel; but they got themselves settled before he had to start rapping it.
“This doesn’t seem quite the time for levity, Counselor,” the judge said sternly.
Mr. Darrow’s smile disappeared, and all the lines in his face seemed to grow deeper with worry. “No-no, it isn’t, Your Honor, and I apologize for sounding that way. The defense will go ahead and open now, with your permission.” Slowly moving out from behind his table, Mr. Darrow walked at a very slow pace over toward the jury box, his shoulders hunched like those of a man what’s carrying a painful burden. “My apology was sincere, gentlemen-sometimes confusion can cause inappropriate behavior. And I’ll admit that the state has confused me mightily, and not just about this case. Mr. Picton seems to know an awful lot about me-seems to know just what it is that I have to say to you, and what words I’ll use to say it. I know I’m not a young man anymore, but I didn’t think I’d gotten quite so old and set in my ways.” The men in the jury box smiled out to Mr. Darrow, who returned the look briefly. “He makes me sound like a pretty dangerous character, doesn’t he? Why, if I were in your spot right now I’d be good and on my guard, ready for the big-city lawyer who’s going to-how did the state put it? To ‘work upon your emotions and your natural sympathies.’ Quite a job, to get twelve grown men to dance like puppets all at once-and I’ll admit to you, gentlemen, I’m not up to it. Especially not when I’m so confused…”
Putting a hand to his neck, Mr. Darrow rubbed it hard, squinting his eyes as he did. “You see, the state seems to want you to believe that they would just as soon’ve let this case alone-that there they were, going about their own business, when suddenly along comes a little girl, along comes Clara Hatch, bursting at the seams to tell her story of what happened on the Charlton road on May the thirty-first, 1894. Well, gentlemen, the truth is a little different. The truth is that after the-the nightmare, the unimaginable tragedy on the Charlton road, my client, Clara Hatch’s mother, was left in such a devastated state that she knew she couldn’t care for a girl whose needs would be as extreme as Clara’s. So what did she do? She agreed to let two good, kind citizens of this town, Josiah and Ruth Weston-most of you know them-care for her daughter while she went off to secure a new future for the both of them, so that they might escape the horrors of the past. She fully intended to return for Clara, when the day came that she was well enough to leave the Westons’. Until recently, she thought that day was still a long way off. And then she received word that Clara had recovered the ability to speak-received it from Sheriff Dunning, who’d come to New York to arrest her. For what, apparently, was the first thing that little Clara said, after her three years of torturous silence? That her own mother had shot her. This tormented, terrified girl one day resumes communicating with the world-a momentous enough event on its own-and without urging, she offers the state an explanation of her tragic experience, one that doesn’t match a single detail of the story that was accepted by everyone in this county as true three years ago, but that does happen to name a culprit for the crime that the state can easily lay its hands on!”
Mr. Darrow took his hand from his neck and shrugged in a big, exaggerated motion. “Dramatic stuff, gentlemen. And, if it were true, very hard to contest. But the fact is, the story isn’t true. Clara Hatch didn’t just wake up one morning ready to tell her tale, and insistent on doing so-she was carefully coached, coached and prodded back into the speaking world. And by whom? By the same man who now sits behind the state’s attorney.” Mr. Darrow didn’t look to the Doctor at that point; but everybody else in the courtroom did. “A man who’s spent his life working with children who have been the victims of tragedy and violence. And a man who happens to have spent the last week assessing the mental condition of my client, and who will be called to the witness stand to speak on that subject-by the state.”Finally, Mr. Darrow looked our way. “Dr. Laszlo Kreizler. The name may not be familiar to you, gentlemen, or to the citizens of Saratoga County generally. But it’s very well known in New York City. Very well known. Respected, by some. Others…” Mr. Darrow shrugged again. “Gentlemen, you may well wonder what and who has brought me here from Chicago to defend my client. But I wonder what and who has brought this stranger, this alienist, here from the madhouses of New York City, to coax a young girl into telling the world that her own mother shot her. That’s what’s got me confused, gentlemen. That’s what troubles the ‘very accomplished attorney,’ to the point where I just can’t gather my wits enough to be able to ‘work on your sympathies.’ Whatever that means…”
Those of us in the two rows behind Mr. Picton shot each other wide, anxious glances-for while Mr. Picton had spoken eloquently to the jury, Mr. Darrow was speaking their own language, and we all knew it.
Rubbing his neck wearily again, Mr. Darrow pulled out a handkerchief and started to wipe away beads of sweat that, as noon got closer, were starting to form faster and faster on his face. “Your Honor,” he said, his voice going very soft and sad, “gentlemen of the jury-life presents us with many events that go unexplained. Some of them are wondrous, and some of them are terrifying. A simple enough thought, maybe, but, like so many simple things, full of implications. Because the mind tends to reject what it can’t explain-reject, fear, and revile it. So it’s been with this case, especially for the men whose job it is to solve crimes and mete out justice for the state. The assistant district attorney calls my client’s explanation of what happened that night a ‘fantastic’ tale. Well… maybe it is. But that doesn’t make it false. That doesn’t even make it complicated. Look at what she’s said-that while she was driving her children home after a long day spent enjoying each other’s company in town and at the lakeshore, she was set upon by an apparently lunatic Negro, who attempted to assault her and threatened her children when she hesitated to surrender herself. The man was wild, crazed, desperate-and when my client made a sudden movement that this man interpreted as resistance, he shot the children and fled.”