of triumph was delightfully intermingled with Jason Sanders' enjoyment of his client's anxiety.
Crowded in the doorway nearest the telephones were a group of newspaper men ready to turn and run at a moment's notice. They watched Jason Sanders.
"He doesn't give a damn," whispered one.
"He knows damn' well what it's going to be," said another.
"He doesn't care—he's been paid," was the significant statement of a third, under whose dissipated eyes bulged pockets of cynicism.
The jurymen subsided heavily into their chairs, and the room became soundless save for a few whispers of the newspaper men. A bailiff eyed them ominously, and they quieted. All eyes were now turned on the foreman of the jury.
The judge eyed the foreman wearily.
"Gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?"
The foreman rose. "Yes, Your Honor we have."
"You may hand it to the clerk."
The foreman produced a folded sheet of paper and proffered it to the clerk, who carried it to the bench. The judge accepted the sheet, glanced over it, frowned and returned it to the clerk.
"The defendant will rise while the clerk reads the verdict of the jury."
His cheeks streaming with perspiration, the defendant rose. The clerk cleared his throat and began to read in an unpleasant tenor.
"We, the jury, being duly impaneled and sworn, do find the defendant, Louis Padullo, not guilty as charged in the indictment."
The clerk folded the sheet and gave it to an assistant. The judge threw up his hands and discharged the jury.
The freed man sank limply into his chair. Sanders stood up, straightened his tie and gazed across the room at Roberts, the district attorney, who sat immobile, his reddened face in his hands. Beside him sat a pallid, sickly youth, who glared at Sanders with burning eyes. Sanders shrugged and moved away.
"Better luck next time," he called to Roberts.
Roberts sprang to his feet, readied Sanders in three long strides and shook his finger under his nose.
"Sanders," he exploded, "I want to tell you that in all my years at the bar I've never seen such palpably manufactured evidence, so many paid perjurers in one case!"
"It is so nice," cooed Sanders, "to know that your experience has been broadened."
"Sanders," Roberts fairly shouted, "you are a disgrace to the bar!"
"I'm not a poor loser," returned Sanders icily.
Roberts seemed about to hurl another denunciation, then he stopped short and said in a deliberate, even tone:
"Let me tell you something, Sanders. There will be one murderer you won't get off, and that will be your own! Mark my words."
Sanders dropped his mask of indifference and eyed the district attorney interestedly.
"Is that a threat?"
"No. I'm simply telling you. Some day, somewhere, someone is going to give you your just deserts. And whoever it is, you won't be there to defend him."
Sanders stared quizzically into Roberts' eyes, then laughed in his face and sauntered away.
"He's probably right," he muttered under his breath, "and that's one case I can't win."
