CHAPTER XII.

THE POLICE COURT.

My experience as a police court reporter is considerable, and in this sketch I propose to give the readers of THE NEWS a sketch of the Magistrate’s morning levee, in which those of the night who hawks come to grief during the hours of darkness appear to explain their shortcomings.

In the first place a description of the surroundings of the Police Court might, and doubtless will, be of interest to those who have neither the opportunity nor the inclination to visit the place and inspect it for themselves. The court room is not unlike court rooms all over the world. There is the raised dais for the presiding magistrate, there is the little pen in front and immediately below it for the clerk of the court. There is the table in front of that for the lawyers, the table for the reporters, the prisoners’ dock facing the magistrate, and the railing through the center of the room to keep back the great unwashed. To the right of and below the magistrate, behind a little screened desk, sits the deputy-chief or the inspector on duty, with the prisoners’ docket before him. And that is about all. The court opens with the regularity of clock-work at ten a.m. precisely, but the doors are unlocked at about half-past nine. Shortly afterwards

THE REGULAR HABITUES

of the court begin to arrive. People slip in by degrees and take their seats in that portion of the room reserved for the public. Here comes a poor, pale-faced woman, meanly clad and sick-looking, who with her thin, trembling hand vainly tries to conceal the mark over her eye dealt by her husband’s brutal fist. She has come to appear against him. There, as she sits nursing her griefs and wrongs, she unconsciously falls into that swaying motion peculiar to a woman who is nursing her child to sleep. Here comes a middle-aged man, whose hairs are already white, and whose face is seamed with lines. The sorrow and shame that he feels does not obliterate the expression of stern justice on his face. He has come to see what can be done for his rascal of a son who is charged with burglary. He would not have come of his own accord, he would have let justice take its course, but the cries and moanings of the nearly-crazed wife and mother, whom he has left at home, has driven him here. He has come for her poor sake. Here comes a plainly dressed and modest looking girl, who is sueing for her wages that she earned in the mean kitchen of some meaner man. The quarter to ten rings out and as Micky Free’s father would say “now the pop’lace” comes pouring in. They have been feasting their eyes on the Black Maria, which has just discharged its contents into the station below. They are white, speckled, saddle-colored and black. They are well and poorly dressed.

ALL OF THEM ARE UNSAVORY.

Meanwhile a more interesting class of habitues are fast arriving. The deputy chief walks in with a dignified mien with his docket under his arm, lays it on his little table, opens it, scrutinizes it, makes an alteration here and there, and then sits down. A few lawyers come through a side door in a great hurry, fling their bags down on the table, glance at the clock, look very much relieved, give the crowd behind the rail a sharp, shrewd glance which takes them in one and all, even to the gurgling baby in the arms of that woman with the wet red mouth and the big moist eye. The reporters come rushing in, glance over the docket, nod to the lawyers, whisper with a policeman, fling their paper on the table, borrow somebody’s knife and set about industriously sharpening their pencils. A couple of sergeants from the other stations arrive and consult with the deputy-chief. Three or four detectives come in briskly and confer with them. Then an inspector and some more sergeants and police come in and, standing erect, look about them with solemn and dignified air. The deputy critically compares his watch with the clock. A couple of policemen are immediately on the alert. It is four minutes to ten.

“Bring in the first two prisoners!”

The alert policemen go out and in an incalculably short time bring in two drunks, who are planted in the dock and told to sit down.

Says the deputy, “Is that John Smith and Reuben Robertson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which is John Smith?”

“The man on the other side.”

“Very well.”

Then there is an expectant lull. It is

EIGHT SECONDS TO TEN.

As soon as the last second is buried in the grave of time that side door will open and the Magistrate will come in. The bells in St. James’ steeple go “kling, ling, ling”—there, didn’t I tell you. The side door swings suddenly open and to sharp cries of “Order! Order!” a tall, handsome military man with iron gray hair and moustache and dressed chiefly in a frock coat, the tails of which are flying behind him, darts into the room and with three long dragoon-like strides is in his seat. He fires a little battery of nods all round and the deputy steps up to swear to the informations. Then he whispers with the deputy a moment and smiles. Then he leans over and whispers with the clerk and laughs noiselessly, then he clears his throat, surveys the court room with the eagle glance of a veteran reviewing a troop of hussars, and finally consults the docket before him. He looks up sharply at the two wretches standing in the dock and asks which is John Smith. John is terribly sober, red-eyed, and befrousled.

“John Smith, you are charged with being drunk on ⸺ street on the ⸺ of May. Were you drunk?”

“Yer ’anner, I was afther going down to ⸺.”

“Were you drunk!”

“⸺goin’ down to McBoasts, pwhin who shud I⸺.”

“Were you drunk!!”

“⸺phwin who shud I meet bud⸺”

“Were you drunk!!!”

“⸺bud ould Mullin’s son, and sez he to me, John, sez he⸺.”

“Were—you—drunk?”

“I was, faith.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that at once?”

“I was tellin’ ye all the time, yer anner, bud⸺”

“Were you ever up before?”

“Och, ax me no kushtions—sure you know right well oi was.”

“Fined $1 and costs or thirty days in jail. Reuben Robertson—is your name Reuben Robertson?”

“It is, sir.”

“You are charged here with being drunk last night. Is that so?”

“It is not, sir.”

“Who arrested this man?” queries the magistrate.

“I did, sir,” says a policeman promptly. He steps into the witness stand, lifts his helmet, is sworn, drops his helmet on his head again, and faces the prisoner.

“Was this man drunk as charged?”

“He was, your Worship. He was so drunk that I had to get a handcart to bring him to the station in.”

“Do you hear that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you ever here before?”

“No, sir, and if you’ll let me off this time, I’ll leave the city.”

“Discharged!” and Reuben makes a bee-line for the door. The French adopted the hat at one time as

A TOKEN OF LIBERTY.

They were judges of human nature. The first impulse of a prisoner discharged in that police court is to clap on his cap. More drunks follow. The old, old story. One man is charged with being disorderly as well as drunk.

“He struck me and tore me coat,” says the constable who arrested him.

“Yes,” pipes up the inspector, “and in the station below he was very obstreperous.”

“Fined $5 and costs or sixty days.”

Then the wife-beater takes his place in the dock. A low-browed, bull-headed, thick-lipped ruffian with bloodshot eyes. He leans his arms on the rail and gazes round him with a sulky air. His wife creeps reluctantly into the witness box—she keeps her face averted; she cannot trust herself to look at her husband. He pleads not guilty. “She tripped on the rug and fell against the table, yer Worship.”

“Is this true?”

“It is not, your Worship,” says the poor woman. “He—he struck me with his fist,” and here she breaks down and sobs hysterically.

“Do you hear what she says?” queries the magistrate.

“She’s lyin to you, sir.”

“I would rather believe her than you,” says the Magistrate, “I fancy a term in jail—or, say Central prison, would do you good.”

“Oh, don’t send him to jail, sir,” cries the poor woman; “don’t send him to jail.”

“But he will only beat you again.”

“Yes, I know, sir; but then the children—the children; where could they get bread and him in the jail, sir?”

It is enough. The man in the dock winces like one who is stabbed. A thrill runs through the court. The man is discharged.

The youth accused of burglary is led in. He is sullen, defiant, but uneasy withal. The detectives are not ready to go on with his case, and he is remanded. The father makes an ineffectual appeal for bail, and then goes home—home, ah! This furnishes the criminal docket!

An abusive language case comes up. Mrs. Drake is charged by Mrs. Gosling with the offence. Mrs. Gosling is a sharp-featured lady in an old-fashioned bonnet and a tired shawl. Mrs. Drake is the woman with the wet lips, the moist eye and the baby.

“Now,” queries the Magistrate good naturedly, “what is this all about.”

“Your Worship,” says Mrs. Drake, “she called me a dirty scut.”

“Oh, listen till her! listen till her!” shrieks Mrs. Gosling, raising her hands and eyes, “how can you tell a lie like that and you on your oat?”

“What is a scut,” queries the Magistrate.

“Oh, Your Worship, I wouldn’t shame myself by using such a word.”

“I never called her a scut!” screams Mrs. Gosling, “I never did. She sed I wasn’t married to me man.”

“Neither ye are.”

“Oh, ye lyin’ hussy, how dar you stand there and—”

“Come, come,” says the Magistrate, and with the aid of the police both women are quieted down and after much trouble all the witnesses are heard and Mrs. Gosling is fined $1 and costs. Shortly after eleven, however, all the cases are disposed of, the crowd disappears, the reporters rush off to their offices and the room is locked up until the next day at ten.