Each lawyer knows this and a petty game of playing for delays and adjournments sometimes goes on. Suppose there is a good claim which nevertheless the defendant denies, knowing how lengthy and wearisome is the game of reaching a case, he often succeeds for years in preventing its collection. The game is simply to tire out the opponents, clients, and witnesses. A clever and unscrupulous lawyer can throw so many obstacles in the way of a plaintiff that, unless he have a strongly developed streak of obstinacy, he will give up in disgust or be glad to compromise.

Unless both sides are anxious to be reached it is practically certain a case will be adjourned two or three times. A sworn affidavit is presented with the doctor's certificate that the client or witness is sick, or the sworn statement that a witness can not be found, or that the lawyer is engaged in the trial of another case. The excuse may be valid and the reasons may be sound, but the adjournment of the day for trial occurs again and again. This is one of the causes for the complaint as to the law's delay. Naturally calendars have to be made and called. Cases have to be tried and others have to be reached in order, but at least there should be sufficient and intelligent planning of the order.

It seems rather a weak answer to say that no one can tell how much time will be occupied in the trial of a case. If any systematic or scientific method of regulating the calendar were devised, one of the evils would be avoided.

The very call of the calendar in some courts occupies to an unreasonable extent the time of the judge who might as readily be engaged in the real work of the court. The aggregate value of the time of the judge, the lawyers, the witnesses, and the jurymen who have all been sitting about waiting, for the call of the calendar is, for one hour's delay a large sum. The waste might be saved by an intelligent bureau for the administration of court business which would have absolute control over all calendar practice.

That the judge should delay a whole court-room full of people by being late in opening court should not only be a matter of apology, but is reprehensible to the extent of being multiplied by the number of people he has kept waiting. On the other hand, the usual course of proceeding being apparently with the object of dragging out the business of the court, makes the tardiness of the judge seem only an incident.

Fortunately there are few attorneys who make appearances in court merely for the sake of adding another item on their bill to the client, and the real delay in reaching a case is due more to the confusion of administrative methods; until some more practical system is devised it will continue. Then witnesses and clients will not be loath to go to court.

The weary work is finished, all the tiresome facts have been gathered, and the rehearsals have been had. The play is written, the parts are cast. The disappointments and delays have been forgotten, the months of preparation have passed. At last the bell for the performance rings and the case is finally to be tried.



VIII

PICKING THE JURY

The clerk calls the case again for trial, not this time to inquire whether both sides are ready but to announce that it is about to begin. The lawyers, their assistants on both sides and their clients move forward to within the rail. There is a certain amount of commotion as they arrange their papers, their portfolios, law books, hats, and coats, and take their places at the counsellors' table opposite the jury-box. In the dignified courts in this country this rather uncomfortable disposition of overcoats and hats is arranged in an adjacent room. The opposing parties in the battle to be enacted are now facing each other. Matters become at once more serious and formal. What was once avoidable is now inevitable.

The stage has still in a measure to be set. Twelve important actors are to be selected. The jury have not yet been chosen. The jury for the sake of comparison take the part of a Greek Chorus, a silent one it is true, until the final word is to be said. They nevertheless are as important and essential a part of the drama as the Chorus, without which in the background no tragedy or comedy was complete.

No curtain divides the theater and the arrangement of the stage goes on before the eyes of the spectators. The choice of the jury constitutes an interesting part of the performance. In this preliminary play the lawyers having important parts, their manner, bearing, tones of voice, their courtesy or discourtesy, repose or nervousness, are watched and unconsciously noted by the jurors. As the jury-box gradually fills, even the slightest idiosyncracy may have some effect on the outcome of the case.

Trial lawyers are careful of their actions even before the case is called to trial. It may be that among the spectators who have been sitting beside the lawyers in the back of the room, waiting for the case to be called, are those who may afterwards be called as jurors. Any affectation of manner or pomposity is quickly detected.

Experienced lawyers immediately they are observed by their tribunal, fall into the parts they are to play during the trial. One lawyer may be jovial and radiate a cheerful confidence. Another has a superior, detached, and academic air which promises a sarcastic cross-examination. Yet another takes on a blustering, brow-beating, intimidating manner, a kind of overmastering virility. Each kind has its own particular advantages, according to the nature of the parts to be played. The most efficient is the manner of the lawyer who is direct, business-like, and consistent with his own personality.

As on the modern stage, there is a return to simplicity of acting. Naturalness and a constant regard for actuality is the only safe rule. Simplicity and naturalness, even if studiously affected, usually prove convincing. The aim is toward consistency and a non-elaborate manner.

Above all the lawyer remembers that the jury admire the good fighter, and it is with a certain obvious subtlety that one successful advocate in New York lets his assistant carry his coat, books, and papers, but he himself always carries his hat—a derby, by the way, for a high hat would be over important. The great man knows that the jurors are aware of the importance of the occasion and that their eyes will follow his every movement. As he walks up to the counsel table and deposits his derby it may well become a gage of battle.

The clerk at the side of the judge's desk begins turning a large hollow wooden wheel; within it are cards on each of which is written the name of a juror who has been served by the sheriff to attend on the panel for the trial term of the court. The number summoned naturally is larger than the twelve needed for any one case. Often those who have to attend at a term of court sit about with nothing to do until they are actually drawn on a case, although they receive their fees for attendance. There is the story of the ignorant workman who was serving his first time on a panel.

"Why," he said, "I was sitting around all day worryin' about my lost working day. If I'd known I was getting two dollars for doing nothing I might have been enjoying myself."

The clerk puts his hand into the wooden wheel after the names have been well mixed and draws out one card after another, calling the names aloud until twelve jurors have been called to the box.

To the entirely new spectator there is a certain mystification about this drawing of the jury from the wooden drum with the handle for turning. To the initiated it may seem rather humorous, like the shuffling of the cards of justice, the drawing from a hat, or the turning of a roulette wheel. It is, however, significant of one of the great principles of Anglo-Saxon law, and that is a trial by a court of average men selected from among the ordinary citizens and drawn on the particular case by chance.

As each juror's name is called he comes forward and his appearance is not lost by counsel. He takes his seat in the box, the juror being first called is known as Juror No. 1, and by this chance, if he remain in the box, he ordinarily becomes the foreman of the jury. In cases of special juries, as of the Grand Jury, the foreman is chosen by selection. The successive jurors are respectively numbered according to their seats beginning from right to left facing them. Here it may be noted that some lawyers in addressing questions to the individual jurors are careful to remember to call them by name, realizing that no one likes to be known by a number. Instead of referring to him as Juror No. 7 or No. 9, he addresses him as Mr. Sullivan or Mr. Schmittberger.

The twelve men being in the box the counsellors begin to examine them as to their qualifications. On a small board bound lengthwise by rubber bands, or stuck in grooves are the cards drawn from the wheel and arranged according to the number of the seats, and containing the names, addresses, and occupations of the gentlemen seated in the box. There are two means of removing a juryman. One is by challenge for cause, i.e., that he is shown to be unfit or prejudiced, and the other is what is known as a peremptory challenge which is practically the same as saying one side or the other does not like the man's looks. There are connotations about the word challenge which are essentially dramatic. It implies a battle, a duel, a tournament.

It is difficult to ascertain exactly what principles govern the successful examination and selection of a jury. In Massachusetts and in certain important cases in New York, the whole panel of jurors summoned for the term of court have been investigated by detectives in order that the lawyer might have information about who was to be rejected or accepted as a juror to decide the case. The propriety of doing this may be questioned and the ordinary case could not bear such an expense.

Nevertheless there is a possibly sound reason for obtaining such information. Given a man's condition in life, his habits, his occupation, his church, his associations, his politics, and given on the other hand a certain state of facts, it is nearly ascertainable how he is going to decide those facts. If a man has always been a rent payer and has probably had continued trouble with his landlord about repairs and a feeling of resentment at the regular recurrence of rent day, is it not natural that he is going to be somewhat prejudiced against a landlord in a dispute between landlord and tenant? or on the other hand can a man who is one of the unfortunate owners of real estate, and who having paid taxes, interest, insurance, repairs for removal of tenement house violations, and with frequent vacancies, really be absolutely just? If a juryman is a Jew, a Catholic, or a Baptist, there will probably be an innate sympathy for his co-religionist. The law does not recognize this unless the juryman is honest enough to confess a prejudice. The soundness of the Anglo-Saxon jury system is based on the theory that there is not one juryman but that there are twelve and that among twelve there will be an average between the landlord and the rent payer, between the Baptist and the Catholic.

The counsel ordinarily selects the jury with observation and common sense as his sole guide. The customary question asked jurymen, whether, given such and such a state of facts, "Do you think you could render a fair and impartial verdict?" is manifestly absurd to the juryman. Every man believes himself to be perfectly honest and just. It takes a strong character to say, "I couldn't be fair." As a matter of fact such a man ought to be kept on the jury rather than let go. As a juryman once said to a lawyer after the case: "Why did you excuse me when I said I knew the other lawyer? You wasted your challenge; he wouldn't have let me stay. I knew him too well."

The extent to which the examination of the fitness of jurors may go is in the discretion of the court. The two extremes are represented by the methods in the English courts where the judge exercises close supervision over every question in the selection of the jury in what would be considered in America an arbitrary and unjustifiable manner, and the extreme liberality at criminal trials in this country. The difference in time is often between that of a few minutes and a few weeks.

Naturally the challenge for cause may or may not be allowed by the judge—the form being, "Your Honor, I ask you to excuse Mr. Smith,"—because the lawyers are more careful in attempting them; for if they are not allowed the juror challenged may be small-minded enough to retain a grudge against the counsel. The sure challenges are the peremptory ones without any cause stated or reason given. The number of peremptory challenges for each side is usually six. As soon as a juror is challenged he steps out of the box and the clerk draws a new name from the wheel.

It is very much as if a player were dealt a hand of twelve cards, and under the rules of the game each side can discard and draw six times from the pack six single cards to improve his holding. The hand, however, is not only his but his opponent's, who may likewise discard and draw six cards when the first player is satisfied. When the second player is through the first may again discard any of the new cards the second has substituted, provided, of course, that six drawings have not been exhausted. This game of chance is always played with an eye to creating a favorable impression on the jury and may be politely finessed to the extreme.

"Mr. Merriweather, do you know the defendant in this case, Mr. Jacobs, or his attorney, Mr. Jenkins, or his assistant, Mr.—er—the young gentleman on his left?" is the usual form, delivered with the utmost urbanity. It means very little, but perhaps helps the lawyer to identify an antagonistic juryman and to obtain their answers, which are almost uniformly in the negative. It is obviously desirable that the juryman, as a judge, should not be a friend of the opposite side. From the manner of the man in the box, as he answers, may possibly be inferred his general disposition, and all further questions have this purpose in view. So the attorney for the plaintiff proceeds throughout the twelve before him, and he may say at any time, "Your Honor, I excuse juror number so and so."

Usually he examines the whole twelve before "excusing" any of them, and when doing so many lawyers turn from the box to the judge as they say, "I will excuse numbers four, five, and eleven." Frequently those remaining do not realize why their brethren have been dismissed. A slight bewilderment may pass across the faces of all, as a man here and there, under the beckoning finger of the clerk, rises to give up his seat.

Opinion differs as to the extent to which challenges should be exercised. Some trial lawyers are chary in using them, being anxious to appear frank, trusting and willing to accept the judgment of any decent citizen. Others are meticulously insistent and exhaust all their challenges. The first attitude is the one of saying:

"I have such a fine case, so honest and just, that it is impossible that any fair-minded man should decade against me. Therefore, I shall not insist on these minor points of interest or prejudice. You are all open-minded. I will leave it to anyone." The second attitude was explained by one lawyer who always put his hand to his chin, looked deeply and inquiringly at the jury, and said in an important voice:

"I challenge jurors numbers 6, 8, 9, and 11, or, 4, 5, and 12." When privately asked on what theory he proceeded in his earnest selection which seemed to imply so wonderful an insight, confessed to no theory at all except the plainly human one that he believed in using up all his challenges simply because it made the other jurors, who remained in the box, feel better and more selected. But the main purpose of selection is to secure a fair and intelligent jury.

Not infrequently one side or the other really wishes to get rid of the best men and willing to take the risk that this will not be apparent. In a real estate case, counsel for the plaintiff not having a strong case succeeded in eliminating every man who had ever owned or who had ever had the slightest experience in houses or property. It was a bold confession that no one who understood the case would decide for him. In railway accident cases, the plaintiff, who asks damages against the company, will often excuse so far as he can, every juror who appears well-to-do or a man of property.

A prominent New York lawyer, when a young man, had defended a case brought against a corporation. The plaintiff and his attorneys were Jews, and the jury-box when first filled was seven-twelfths Hebraic. Counsel for the plaintiff immediately excused the five Gentiles and when the corporation's lawyer stood up, not a man in the jury-box was of his own race. He accepted them. The trial went on, and it appeared that the plaintiff's claim was very weak indeed. At last counsel for the defendant had to sum up and he concluded in this way:

"Gentlemen of the Jury: The plaintiff hopes to win this case not on the law, nor on his evidence, nor on any consideration of justice. He hopes to succeed because of the simple fact that he is a Jew, his lawyer is a Jew, and every one of you men are Jews." With an expression of faith in the sense of justice inherent in the Jewish race and of confidence in the verdict, the attorney for the defendant sat down. The jury decided in his favor.

Such boldness, when successful, is often rewarded, but it is of course inherently dangerous.

Skilful counsel will succeed in ingratiating themselves from the very beginning, but they will endeavor to do so only with the jury as a whole. Nothing is more unfortunate than to bestow attention upon a particular juryman: that is to flirt with a juror. If he has not yet been sworn in with the rest and the opponent sees it, he will certainly get rid of him. If he remained, he would very probably be regarded with suspicion by his chosen associates. Should the counsel think that one man in the box is favorably disposed toward him, he wisely leaves him alone and hoping that the other side will not notice it, devotes himself the more earnestly to the others.

The jury is at last selected. The challenges have been exhausted. Both lawyers look as though they were pleased. The judge is informed that the jury is satisfactory, which is, of course, an euphemistic term. No jury is ever entirely satisfactory to both sides, but it is a polite way of saying it is the best they can get under the circumstances. The judge stops trying to balance his check book and looks up at the jury. The attendant motions them to their feet. They hold up their hands. The judge also rises.

"Gentlemen," he says, "Do you each and all of you solemnly swear to well and truly try the case of John Smith against Thomas Gregory and a just verdict render according to the evidence? So help you God." They do not answer, but they sit down.



IX

OPENING THE CASE

The jury is chosen, sworn, and sitting in the jury-box. The judge begins unfolding the papers of the case so that he may read the pleadings. The actual trial of issues is about to begin. The court attendant has taken the jurymen's hats and coats, another attendant has shown spectators to their seats and politely as possible suppressed the young law clerk who does not see why he could not go up to the judge and ask him what became of the case of Jones against Allen that was on the calendar last Thursday and should have been on to-day, or ask if "His Honor decided that motion in the case of Meyer against Cohen." The doors of the court-room are closed. The attendants go about looking for whisperers and saying, "Cease all conversation." The lady client is interrupted in telling her lawyer that she thinks the judge has a kind face, but that she does not like the looks of the man in uniform standing next to him, or vice versa. Gradually the court-room quiets and a spirit of expectancy prevails.

But the actual taking of evidence and the hearing of testimony is not yet. Now comes what is known as the opening. So in the tournament, the armored knights entered with a blast of trumpets, their names and titles having been called, and it was customary for them to ride once or twice around the lists to let the judges see their armor, their weapons, their mounts, their trappings and accoutrements, or they might even try a tilt or two at one another. The introductory speech of counsel is somewhat in the nature of a parade or a preliminary skirmish. It may also be compared to the prologue spoken before the beginning of a drama. The speech with the vivid brevity, so common in legal terminology, is called the opening.

The object is to show to the judge and jury what the drama is about. The secondary object is to arouse interest. Immediately after the opening comes the evidence, which is usually bald, fragmentary, and disconnected. It might be impossible for the jury to understand the relation of one bit of testimony to another. Take a simple case such as a suit for the failure to pay a bill at a dry-goods store. One witness testifies to the sale, another to the packing of the goods, another to the delivery; a receipt is introduced in evidence. Each one would not tell a connected story. The opening outlines the facts and makes the evidence understandable. It also has the function of an appetizer. This may seem a trifle unnecessary. But let us take an illustration. A whole case may depend upon a deed. If the paper itself were put in and read to the jury without explanation they would be bored. One witness is to tell this part of the story, another that, and the missing link of the chain may be supplied by the deed. The jury are not to be mystified before their interest is aroused. Are not the lives, property, or reputations of particular men at stake? The ordinary man and even more the average juryman has far too strong a sense of responsibility to be bored if truly he can understand what it is all about. The function of the opening is to tell him.

As the counsel begins opening every juryman leans forward and watches him intently. They feel their responsibility as officers of justice and there have been few complaints of their falling asleep during the trial. The jurymen have come to know the names of the opposing lawyers and the faces of the clients, if they have been pointed out during the examination of the jurors, but nothing more. Are the jury to hear a story of bitter resentment or of passion and crime, or a calm demand for the payment of a debt? The opening will show.

Did the plaintiff during years of effort build up a business and take the defendant in as a partner only to be defrauded by him? Plaintiff's attorney will indicate the years of effort briefly, but impressively, before sketching the manner in which the defendant stole from him by fraud the fruits of his labor. When the plaintiff then testifies that in 1890 he opened a small store in Fourteenth Street, moved in 1896 to Twenty-third Street and thence in 1916 to an up-town street off the Avenue, the dates will sink into the jurors' minds and they will portray for themselves the twenty-six years of painstaking effort. No eloquence then could rival the effect of the witness's slow, bare recital of his progress. Yet without counsel's prologue what could be more dull than the naming of street numbers and dates?

The matter of the testimony may be interesting, but unless the witness has a rare gift of expression and a sense of the picturesque, the way in which it will be given may be dull and plain. But at this point the little keen-faced lawyer for the other side jumps up and interrupts: "I object, your Honor; what difference does it make where he lived in 1890, whether on Fifth Avenue or Mulberry Bend? What we want to know is what he is suing for now." And the court will probably rule with him and keep the plaintiff down to more relevant facts.

Some of the important answers may be yes or no. Counsel in such a case supplies the color and gives an appearance of life to what is actually alive enough, but which alone would seem dry. Even if so famous a character of fiction as "Becky Sharp" came into court and only looked her part with what intense interest would we not hang on her testimony, though it consisted of no more than "Yes, I did"; "I never saw him before." We should be fascinated by this bald statement because Thackeray had interested us so enormously in the lady. The air would be electrified by the force of her personality. Without a previous introduction, however, we might be so lacking in discernment as to find her, in appearance and voice, no more unusual than the average witness who goes on the stand.

Thackeray not only created Becky Sharp; he also created our interest in her. Similarly the lawyer may create an interest in his witnesses, some of whom may be personally every bit as extraordinary as any character in a novel. If a witness be actually commonplace, there is all the more need for making him vividly human; if he be so colorless that nothing could be made of him personally, he may acquire interest through the class to which he belongs, for classes have a personable color more deep than the almost colorless individual.

To induce the jury to visualize the story and the characters, the highest literary gift may be brought into play. The lawyer is limited as to time and the description he may employ. He has, however, his voice and expression: an actor's tools. But again the rule of simplicity and naturalness should apply.

The opening speech is a prologue and it does not argue. Counsel will not be permitted to argue his case in his opening, for his opponent will object and the Court will often say, warningly, "Counselor, you are summing up." This limitation, however, is in reality an advantage, not merely because it applies to both sides, but for the reason that no lawyer with any sense of dramatic values would anticipate his denouement. Argument is apt to be chilling unless the decision sought for can be discerned, however dimly, without it. And how are the jury to frame their decision before the evidence has been presented? The jury should be interested in Miss Becky Sharp and prepared to understand her testimony, but, before they have heard her story from witnesses who know, they will not be favorably impressed by urgings that she was wronged or badly treated.

There is usually leniency in regard to the length of the opening, because it is well recognized that few witnesses can tell a connected story, or tell it well. From the old French story of the lawyer who began avant le creation du monde, and the judge who asked him to pass on au deluge, down to the usual modern method of nagging the lawyer into stating only the skeleton of the action, there are various degrees of eloquence, varying naturally according to the importance of the case.

A wonderful thing the prologue may be in its restraint and picturesque vividness, and, not least, in its clarity. Confused business dealings may be described so that important sums, figures, and dates will be remembered and recognized when they appear again in the evidence. Counsel, for the time, occupies the center of the stage; his course is in his hands to make or mar. He reaches the end of his speech, bows, and the first witness is called.

Before the testimony begins the judge looks at the defendant's counsel and asks him whether he wishes to state his defense. There is a different practice in this regard in different courts. Some insist that the defendant ought to tell at once what his side is about, others that the defendant should wait until the plaintiff is through all his evidence and has rested; then at the beginning of the defendant's case the defendant's lawyer opens and makes his introduction.

The difference between these two manners of proceeding is so essential that it may be explained. On the one hand the lawyer feels that he should not be compelled to give away what he is going to do, how he proposes to meet the attack, whether he will lie in ambush and snipe the plaintiff as he comes on or intrench behind a rampart and meet him with the full force of his battery of evidence. He may be planning to make a sudden sally after the plaintiff has shot his arrows and exhausted all his ammunition. The lawyer feels if he tells his plan of campaign he loses the advantage of generalship.

Suppose a simple case: The plaintiff is suing on a long account for a bill of goods which will take a long time to prove. The defendant has a receipt in full showing payment. On the theory that the defendant need not disclose his evidence in the opening, he may sit still with the receipt up his sleeve, let the plaintiff open and call his witness, the evidence may drag itself along with the usual motions and objections, and after the plaintiff rests the defendant opens to the jury.

"Gentlemen," he says, "this is a simple case. The plaintiff claims he sold the goods and the defendant did not pay for them. I propose to show you that the plaintiff was not telling the truth. I made him prove to you that he sold every item in the bill because I wanted to show you how untruthful he is. My client, the defendant, not only paid for the goods but I can show the receipt in full signed by the plaintiff."

To the layman this is absurd. The defendant should have shown the receipt in the first place and all the waste time of the trial would have been saved. "No," says the technical lawyer, "if I had disclosed my evidence before, the plaintiff would have framed his evidence to meet the situation." The modern view is otherwise. In France, for instance, no paper can be offered in evidence on a trial unless it has been shown to the attorney for the other side beforehand and everyone has had a chance to examine it. Indeed, this exhibition of original documents is conducted in so open and honest a fashion that it is customary to send all the original papers to the other side without even taking a receipt or retaining a copy and in the whole history of the French bar the loss of such a paper has never been known.

It seems more practical and sensible that the lawyers for the defendant should be required to state the nature and detail the facts of his defense. It is the difference between the old idea of trial and the new. The first was an imitation battle, the new idea is not that it is so much a struggle as an investigation of the facts. If the plaintiff wants to meet the receipt he can make a counter-attack or explanation in the rebuttal and explain how he came to sign the receipt in full. The judge and the jury feel the necessary element of the trial is to arrive at the facts and that the planning and methods of charge and counter-charge are not so significant. The old conception of the trial as a battle is disappearing.

The opening by the defendant at the beginning directly after the plaintiff has finished his opening and before a witness is called, makes the trial simpler to the minds of the jurymen who are to decide the facts. The pleadings are supposed to define and state the issues but as they are usually technical they have become not sufficiently pliable. The defendant by his answer denies merely the facts stated in the plaintiff's complaint in the paragraphs numbered six, eight, and ten. The defendant on his opening should be compelled to make plain to the minds of the jury what he intends to show. He should take the position of a plain business man who says, These foolish people imagine they have a claim against me. They have nothing of the kind.

The plaintiff says that he understood the contract to be so and so and that acting on that assumption both parties did certain things and know the defendant with evil intent and wrongfully forgetting the duty he owes to keep his word refuses to live up to his agreement, therefore, "Gentlemen, we have been compelled to come to court and bring this action and we shall show you gentlemen facts from which you must find a verdict in our favor." The defendant then arises and says:

"Gentlemen, we are going to show a letter that contradicts all this." Oratory has little place in the opening of the defendant.

The judge has been, during the two openings, attempting to keep the two counsels down to the facts which he thinks may be proved and from wandering too far afield. As quickly as they are both through he says, "Call your first witness," and with trepidation the witness takes the stand.



X

THE CONFUSED WITNESS

The whole question as to witnesses is whether they shall be allowed to tell what they want or what the lawyers want. As they are both in the court-room they must abide by the rules of the court. That is the trouble: the rules are against the witness.

When the witness goes on the stand for the first time the court attendant asks her to raise her right hand. She does so and tries to sit down in the witness chair so that she may feel a little more at ease. "Stand up," says the officer. The judge looks at her inquisitorially over his spectacles. She tries to smile and regains her feet. "Raise your hand," says the judge. The delightful and sanitary custom of kissing the Bible has been done away with. Even the habit of resting the hand on the Book is disappearing and in many courts a Bible is hard to find.

The lady, in the confusion of appearing on a stage for the first time and standing on a raised platform before an audience, holds up her left hand. The court attendant jumps at her. The judge has seen the same performance many times before and hardly notices the contretemps. By this time she is confused and ruffled and after hearing something murmured about the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, she sinks into the chair and begins in a very uncomfortable frame of mind the ordeal of giving testimony.

What she wants to say, what she ought to say, what she was told to say is all gone. The jury and the judge understand and feel sympathetic but the rules of the court do not permit them to be polite, and to ask her to take a more comfortable chair, to have some tea, whether the children have had any after-effects of the measles, or to take off her hat and stay a while. She knows she has to stay and that she is not going to enjoy it.

She is the important witness who was riding in the car at the time it crashed into the grocery wagon. She is honest, of average intelligence, and wants to tell the truth. She is asked:

"At the time of the accident, where were you?" She says that she was in the car going up-town to see her married daughter whose children were sick with the measles and she was in a hurry. The lawyer moves to strike out the latter part of the answer. The fact that she was going to see her daughter, that the children had the measles, and that she was in a hurry are not relevant and have nothing to do with the case. The only relevant fact is that she was in the up-town car.

She was sitting four seats from the front and thinking the car was going very slowly and the children would be asleep before she got there. It is immaterial that she was thinking about her grandchildren or the measles, or that she was thinking about the car going slowly. The real question is how fast the car was going.

The reason for the rule of evidence is that the court always wants to know not what she thought, but what she actually saw. She will not be allowed to tell what she thought or what she told her daughter after the accident. The daughter can not be called to the stand to testify what her mother told her, when she reached her house, about what had happened. Newspaper accounts of the accident may not be allowed in evidence, nor what the policemen reported on the accident, because he arrived afterward. Anglo-Saxon law holds the proof down to what was actually perceived by the five senses. The court makes up its own mind from these perceptions and the facts themselves. It does not want to hear what someone thinks, or what the witness believes or concludes, but only what he perceived.

There is much to be said for and against this rule on both sides. A broader method to the lawyer seems shockingly loose and slipshod. The rules of evidence to the bystander seem an inhuman farce. The first allows an atmosphere to be created from which the whole truth may be reached. Would not an ordinary person, if he wanted to find out about the accident, read the newspapers, find out the police reports, ask what a witness thought, what that witness told someone else about the accident afterward? Is she not now giving someone an account of the accident?

Psychologists agree that no one can accurately narrate their perceptions and what happens before their eyes. Moreover, the tests performed on school and college graduates in regard to their powers of observation have shown the fallibility of human perception. The failure to perceive, plus the failure to remember, plus inadequacy of language, makes all testimony unsatisfactory. People of little education are still less able to either see or explain. The only safe way is to obtain a composite photograph of the witness's mind and of the thoughts that arise from the original perception, a continuation of impressions.

Judges or juries never determine cases by first deciding which witness is telling the truth or at least the exact truth. They take it for granted that both sides are lying somewhat; that no matter how well they mean and how hard they try, all witnesses are incapable of telling the exact truth. The unfortunate part of the law is that this is not officially recognized. There is a hypocrisy in not recognizing the inadequacy of human eyes and ears to grasp even simple concrete facts. A timidity exists that will not allow the admission of human imperfection.

The proof of this is that when three witnesses go on the stand and describe a thing as having happened in the same way, immediately there is a strong doubt in the mind of the jury about the whole case. Suppose the question of the time a crime was committed arises and the defense tries to prove an alibi by showing the defendant was in a saloon at that time. There may have been three witnesses who really saw him at the same time. One witness comes on the stand and says 3:10, the next witness says he saw him at 3:10, and third says the same. The jury conclude that the story has been made up.

Yet suppose the first witness says he saw him sometime after lunch, and the second that he remembers seeing the defendant in the saloon sometime that day, but he is not sure whether it was in the morning or the afternoon, and the third witness says that he saw him during the week, but that he does not remember the day, whether a Thursday or a Friday—it is probable that the defendant will have a much better chance of succeeding with his alibi.

The lady in the car could not remember the time of the day, except that it was near the children's bed time. She had heard the crash and seen the wagon turn on to the car tracks. With a great many objections she finally gets to the point of the crash.

"Did you see the car hit the wagon?" "I object to that as leading," says the other lawyer. "It is leading and suggestive." Technically he may be correct, but if the judge has common sense he overrules the objection.

The proper question would be: "What happened next?" The witness, however, might remember the paper bag of oranges she was carrying to her grandchildren and instead of telling about the accident begin to describe how she dropped them on the floor. Leading questions are necessary in nearly every case. The reason that they are objectionable and ruled out is, that the judge and the jury ought to hear not the lawyer's narrative of the facts, but what the witness actually remembers.

A witness on the stand appears at his worst. If any one from real life were suddenly thrust unprepared and unlearned in theatrical art upon a stage the incongruity of the situation would be appalling. Yet the witness is thrown into new and strange surroundings. It is a portion of the reality of life shown vividly against a conventionalized background. The judge and jury in a vague manner understand this. The lawyer producing the witness feels this and elicits the testimony in a soothing manner.

The objects of cross-examination are as follows. The first is to prove that the story of the witness is not true, and the other is to bring out something new. The opposing counsel often forgets the purpose of his cross-examination and by attempting to bully and frighten the witness, usually either by sarcasm or a doubting manner, accomplishes very little. Not one cross-examination out of five hundred amounts to anything. The judge has heard many and he has little hope of their being of much interest. The jury make so much allowance for the witness being frightened on the stand and for the fact that she is in the hands of a clever lawyer, that they are not much impressed even if she contradicts herself or is proved mistaken. At best it is only a mistake, not a deliberate lie. The lawyer thinks he owes a moral obligation to his client and to himself to cross-examine. He is compelled to go on. There is a musty tradition of the law that a trial without cross-examination is not a proper trial. It is a legal fetish and one of the things that is done. The judge expects it, the jury expect it, the client expects it and the public.

The client pays his money and he ought not to be disappointed. If it were omitted altogether, the judge and jury might not feel the loss so bitterly. Perhaps they might prefer it and the question for the lawyer is whether it is better to satisfy the client or the jury. In this quandary the lawyer may forget that the main point is to win the battle. When the case is lost the client does not care at all how brilliantly the lawyer looked, acted, or fought.

If the lawyer reasons he will say:

"If the object of my cross-examination is to show that the witness is not telling the truth, have I much chance of getting him to confess the fact?" The witness knows something about perjury. He is afraid and he has heard about those pitfalls of cross-examination. Does the lawyer remember his own hopeful son and how only yesterday he could not get him to admit stealing the cake even with the prospect of immediately impending punishment? Only that little rim of chocolate about the ears was the proof. Even the deaf little child, who is not as intelligent as the witness, will not admit that he was untruthful. But still he goes on cross-examining.

If the witness is finally shown a paper which he or she signed when the investigator of the railroad came to see her, and in which she said she was sitting on the sixth seat, there is not such a great deal to be proud of.

"Ha, Ha," thinks the lawyer "at last," "didn't you just now say you were sitting on the fourth seat?" "I don't remember," says the witness. "What," thunders the lawyer, "you don't remember; then your memory is poor. I will read you what you said on your direct examination," and he does. "Now which was it, the sixth or the fourth seat."

The other object of cross-examination is to elicit new facts. This is a dangerous risk for the lawyer, and unless he is sure of his ground, he had better not take it. He will do better to let his own side tell the facts than to bring them out through an unwilling witness who is on his guard and thinking the opposing lawyer is trying to trap him.

The mistake that most lawyers make in cross-examination is to ask the witness to repeat what he said in his direct testimony. Telling the same story over again merely accents the facts in the minds of the jury. The lawyer asks:

"You say that you saw the driver whip up his horses when the car was a block away." The lawyer may doubt the truth of the statement but the mere repetition of the words affects the memory of the jury. Unless he has a distinct object in going over the testimony, either to show the direct contrary strongly, or the fact that the witness has learned the testimony by rote and that the repetition is in exactly the same words, the lawyer would do better to desist.

Strange as it may seem the rules of evidence are actually based upon common sense. The ordinary experience of mankind gave rise to the rules of evidence, but the difficulty is that the further experience of civilization is giving rise to new rules which are not consistent with the old. Nevertheless the present rules when reasonably applied are fairly good. The question really is whether there should be any at all.

Accepting the fact that there should be rules they are based on two principles; the first is that only something which has to do with a case can be proved and second that it can be proved only in a safe and reasonable way. It may seem impossible to the lawyer and equally to the laymen to state the rules of evidence in simple language. But the principles of common sense will govern in the end, as they have in the past, notwithstanding they have been hidden under a mass of verbiage, ancient forms, and obsolete customs.

The theory is that justice wants the highest and best it can obtain, the court insists on the two principal rules; that evidence must be the very best that can be obtained and must be brought out in the safest, clearest, and most authentic manner.

Take, for instance, the rule that conclusions of the witness are not allowed. If the court considered as evidence that the testimony "the defendant brought the goods and they were delivered," and the defendant came on the stand and said, "I did not buy the goods and they were not delivered," the court would have before it merely two contrary beliefs or conclusions. It would be a case of "Katy did, Katy didn't."

The rule of evidence is plain that makes it necessary for the plaintiff to show where he saw the defendant, what was done, and what was said or written by the two parties. If the question is as to the delivery, it is not enough for the plaintiff to say "I delivered the goods." The court must have proof of the history of the goods. The driver of the wagon must be called who can testify where he drove, what package he carried, and what was done with it when he reached the house.

The whole subject of expert witnesses is not so complicated after all. They are merely persons of exceptional experience who are allowed to testify as to something of which they know nothing. They may have never seen nor heard the facts in dispute but because they have had so much experience on similar facts they are allowed to say what they think of facts produced by eye witnesses before the court. As conclusions and opinions may be various, there is at times a great variety in experts, and because the very name of experts implies technicality, there is a feeling in the minds of the jury and the public, that the testimony of experts will befog by a mass of non-understandable terms.

The doctor who testified in a case in which the plaintiff suffered a sore back and had seventy-five dollars damages from the jury is an example. He said:

"The plaintiff was suffering from traumatic sacro-illiac disease, traumatic sinovitis of the knee and wrist and from traumatic myositis of the muscles of the back."

In reality the testimony of expert witnesses is very good evidence. If it is given in plain and understandable English and the jury think the expert a clean-cut, sensible man, it is just what the jury want to learn. An expert's method of reasoning about the facts in evidence is the same as that employed by the jury in the jury-room. It is merely an opinion; for on the opinion of the jury, based on the evidence depends their verdict.

While the witnesses are being examined, called to the stand, sworn, being excused, and being cross-examined, there occur numberless incidents of the trial known as the objections, exceptions, and motions.



XI

THOSE TECHNICAL OBJECTIONS

These are the stage tricks and little incidents that give variety to the performance. No drama would be complete without a few diversions. So far as the drama itself goes, they are of no great importance except to give pungency and interest to the action.

The lawyer asks an apparently good question. "I object," says the other lawyer, "on the ground that it is incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial." The judge has to rule. He may not exactly have heard the question. The stenographer reads it again. The other lawyer leans forward in a frenzy of fear lest the question be ruled out. He begins to argue.

"The question is perfectly proper; the witness ought to be permitted to answer it." "No," says the other lawyer, "it is improper in form, calls for a conclusion, and should not be allowed." The judge looks puzzled. "Read that again," he says. The question is, "What kind of a cow was it you saw in the plaintiff's garden?" "I still object," says the lawyer. "The witness has not been shown to be an expert. If my learned friend is going to attempt to qualify him as an expert, I desire an opportunity to cross-examine him concerning his experience in cows." "Not at all," answers the lawyer. "The question is entirely proper and I stand on my legal rights." The judge hesitates; if he does not rule correctly the lawyer will take an exception and the Appellate Court may not like it. So he says, turning to the witness, "You may answer, but I will reserve the question and decide it later on a motion to strike out." "I except," says the lawyer. The jury look relieved. The witness straightens up, the opposing lawyer sits back in disgusted contempt at such a loose method of procedure. "Well," says the witness, "it was a red cow."

This may go on for some time.

"I move to strike the answer out," says the lawyer; and the argument begins all over again.

Throughout the trial the client and the jury are waiting for these objections and exceptions. The nature of an exception is a notice served on the judge that his rulings are wrong. The theory is that if he wants to change them he had better do so before the case goes to appeal. It is a covert threat to the judge. There is a principle in some courts that no ruling that is not excepted to can be considered on appeal; consequently a lawyer is careful to preserve his rights by exceptions.

A young lawyer once had this principle so firmly fixed in his mind that when he went to court he began taking exceptions to everything, even rulings in his favor. He would make an objection; the judge would sustain it. "I except," said the lawyer. He would make a motion; the judge would grant it. "I except," said the young lawyer. The other side would make an objection; the judge would rule against them and in favor of the lawyer, "I except," said the lawyer. Finally the situation grew so strained that the judge called the young man to the bench and spoke to him confidentially. His explanation was: "This is my first case and the head of my firm told me to be sure and take exceptions to all rulings."

Some lawyers are so in the habit of excepting, it sounds as though they were hiccoughing. "Overruled"; "I except"; "Allowed"; "I except"; "Denied"; "I except"; "Granted"; "I except." It becomes a custom as constant as the refrain in a comic opera.

Theoretically it may have a sound basis under the law, but so little practical value has it that it seems ludicrous. The lawyers and the judges consider it a matter of course. If the judge after all the argument finally decides to let the testimony as to the red cow stand, he will not be inclined to change his mind because the lawyer interjects that threatening exception. The sound of the word is spiteful and seems to express the resentment of the lawyer at the ruling of the judge.

No example could be found in the thousand volumes of law reports where the judge changes his mind on account of an exception. The object in this particular direction is vain.

With regard to appeal; the Appellate Court that attempts to decide a case on the exceptions taken at the trial would have a difficult time. They would have to disentangle the mesh of evidence and find out whether that important piece of testimony on page 204 was excepted to or not, then whether there was a proper ruling; refer to the stenographer's minutes and look at the important exception on page 59 and again on page 106. Unless the question decided was excepted to, the Appellate Court can not decide it. It is hard to imagine that any court could be so rigorous and narrow-minded that they could hang justice on such little pegs of exceptions, which the stenographer in the hurry of the moment may have forgotten to insert.

In the criminal courts there are no exceptions on the part of the people, because there are no appeals on behalf of the State. The defendant continues to repeat "I respectfully except." "I must insist on my exception." Think of a man being jailed for seventeen years because his case was not reversed on account of the failure to except. The court could not believe Justice to be so blind-folded that she can not understand the evidence as a whole.

Exceptions are the tacks and pin pricks of a trial. They are of so little value in the main structure of the drama that if they are forgotten by either side, the court should provide them with a bushel basketful which could be distributed by the handful wherever the lawyers thought they would be useful or pleasant.

Objections are of three main kinds: irrelevant, immaterial, and incompetent. They are like the magic words that open or unlock the doors of evidence and let it in or keep it out. They have three distinct meanings which lawyers understand. A thing may be immaterial, but not incompetent, or incompetent and not immaterial, or irrelevant and not immaterial, or irrelevant and not incompetent, or incompetent and not irrelevant, or one or both or not at all. Any student of law can fully explain the difference, but the distinction is immaterial and irrelevant, and if the reader is in doubt let him ask any lawyer friend to tell him in plain words, without insulting his common sense, what the distinction between immaterial and irrelevant is.

The confusion of one young man found expression finally in the terms "irreverent, impertinent, and—and—and—no—matter."

The lawyer, when he objects, usually attempts a few other suggestions which may be considered by the judge, such as "the question is leading and suggestive; grossly improper; calling for a conclusion; objected to as argumentative or because of its ambiguity."

Whatever the trouble with objections may be, it is neither the fault of the lawyer, the judge, nor the witness. When certain evidence is not allowed by law it is proper that it be objected to. Unreasonable and often comical as objections sound, the basis of their existence in law is that the court wants the best possible proof.

Instead of a copy of a letter the judge and the jury ought to see the original. Instead of the copy of a will the paper actually signed by the testator is wanted. Suppose a question arises as to the payment of a bill. The defendant says that he went into the store and paid it. The best proof is to be given by someone who saw him pay it. A witness to whom he came afterward and said that he had been down to the store and had paid the bill is not so accurate a witness as the man who was in the store and saw the money paid over. It is to keep out this poorer proof that objections are made.

If the objection is good, the judge says "Objection sustained," or if he thinks the evidence the best he allows it and says "Objection overruled," then the witness may proceed and answer the question. Unless the lawyer objecting states the ground or reasons for his objection, the objection is not supposed to be valid for the other side ought to be apprised of the reason so that he may supply the proper proof, that is why the objection is named as irrelevant, incompetent, and immaterial, so as to cover all possible grounds.

The reasons given for the objections: incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial might, so far as the average man is concerned, read "incontepent," "irrevelant," and "immature." The words when repeated together seem like that old legal term "incorporeal hereditaments." They are imposing and add tone to the trial. The solemnity of repetition is always a valuable asset. The real value of the word irrelevant is shown by repeating irrelevant, "irrevelant," irrelevant, "irrevelant." In a short time one sounds as valuable as the other.

When he makes the objection the lawyer rises and when he is through sits down. This gives the appearance of constantly jumping up but is only a question of etiquette, like taking off the hat or making a bow. Some people like the formality but there is a question how much is due to the dignity of a court and how much form and manners must be sacrificed to efficiency of business. The judge who said that he did not hear the constant objections of the lawyer because he made his objections sitting down was not so much an adherent of good form as a protestor against the absurdity of professional objections.

The mooted question is the same and goes back to the one on evidence. Shall everything be allowed in and a photographic picture of numerous details be given to the court? If that is the correct idea, a general knowledge and atmosphere may be derived from all the surrounding circumstances and then there would be no objections. If the strict interpretation of the law be followed limiting evidence to only what is seen and heard, objections are proper and sensible.

The modern tendency is to do away with all restrictions of the past. There has been too great severity in interpreting the law of proof and the pendulum is bound to swing far in the opposite direction. A medium may not easily be reached, and the only test is the common sense of the average.

On the question of time and whether the abolishing objections and letting in all evidence would not be shorter, there is much to be said. It might take less time for the witness to recount the death-bed scene of his wife's sister's brother-in-law's aunt, than for the court to hear and pass upon all the objections and arguments as to the admission of the testimony on the red cow.

As the jury listen to the objections and exceptions they become more and more impatient. The restraining influence of the surroundings, the fact that they are impaneled in a box and that they are a part of, the drama keeps them silent. They cannot break out in revolt at the badgering of the witness. They can say nothing about the absurd objections that are interrupting the proceedings or the spiteful little exceptions that are being thrown in, but can only quietly store up an increasing mistrust of the whole method. When the lawyer objects so strenuously the jury thinks he must have something to conceal. Yet when the objections are made they have a certain effect which is not at first realized. A question is asked that is to the juryman perfectly sensible, but which is absolutely inadmissable under the rules of evidence. For example, the lawyer asks, "What did you tell your wife about the accident when you got home?" Any reasonable man knows that what he tells his wife is very important and bears on the question of his veracity. The other lawyer very properly objects. The jury thinks there must be something in it. The lawyer asks again, "Didn't you tell your wife the horses were going very fast?" The other lawyer is on his feet. "I object," he says, "and I must ask your Honor to instruct the counsel not to ask questions that are manifestly improper." The Court rules in favor of the objecting lawyer. He admonishes the lawyer and instructs the jury to disregard the question. Yet what is the effect? The jury believes unless the lawyer thought the answer would be most unfavorable to his side he would not have objected to it so strenuously. The impression remains on the minds of the jury that there was a good deal to that question of what he told his wife.

It is for this reason that when the lawyer keeps on asking objectionable questions, the judge will sometimes declare a mistrial or allow one side to withdraw a juror, which is only a polite way of saying that the present jury in the particular case can not be fair.

Here arises one of the prettiest dilemmas of the law on the trial of a case. Suppose the case has been going on all day or for several days. The plaintiff is very anxious to have it finished. He has been at great expense and trouble to get his witness and the lawyers' time is valued at so much per trial day. On the other hand the defendant at the worst can only have a judgment against him, which may as well happen at another time. He is willing to have the case declared a mistrial and start anew; he knows it will take a long time for the trial to come up again. It has been a dull grilling proceeding, but he does not care so long as there is a chance of postponing the judgment against him. It is on the whole better and easier to put it off.

Now if the judge declares a mistrial, on the motion of the plaintiff, that is his own look out. He believes that he can not have a fair trial, that he can not proceed. But suppose the defendant by his lawyer makes the trial unfair. His lawyer keeps asking those improper questions which imply so much to the minds of the jury. The judge may speak severely to the lawyer and caution him not to keep on putting suggestive questions. That is all that he can do. It would be plainly unfair to order the withdrawal of a juror. The trial according to the opinion of the judge may be unfair. The plaintiff's counsel is afraid to ask for a mistrial, first on account of the trouble and expense to his client, and second, if it be denied, the jury will believe he thinks them unfair and does not want them to try the case. The judge is in a curious position with regard to objectionable questions and testimony, he ought not to penalize the plaintiff by punishing the defendant. The loosening of the laws of evidence might do away with quandaries such as these.



XII

THE MOVEMENTS IN COURT

Motions imply movement and action especially in a drama, but in a court motions are the reverse and occupy the place of dramatic pauses which delay the real movement of the play. They are of great interest to the lawyers, of some interest to the judge, because he has at once to pass upon them, of but little interest to the client, who does not understand them, and of no interest whatsoever to the jury, except when they result in the disposal of a trial.

Before the case begins the defendant makes a motion. When the plaintiff's lawyer has finished his opening, the other side makes a motion to dismiss the case. When he ends his evidence, the other lawyer moves to dismiss. When both sides are through, each moves. When the jury bring in the verdict either side may move, or both when neither is satisfied. All through the trial there are quantities of little motions. Motions to strike out, motions to instruct, motions to make the witness answer a question, motions to make the other lawyer behave. Except for pointing the finger or raising the voice in talking, they are not movements, they are only verbal, the action comes in the play of emotions of the parties in court. Motions are merely saying what either side wants; the formal asking for something.

The first important motion is on the pleadings themselves or when the plaintiff has opened. If the judge does not believe that the plaintiff has stated a case in law, he dismisses it on a motion of the defendant and the judgment is "without prejudice." The trouble is that a judgment of this kind does not finally dispose of the dispute. The plaintiff may bring the action over again.

He may appeal from the decision or judgment and the appellate court may rule that the trial judge was wrong and then after an interval the case goes to a new trial just the same. By this time the plaintiff or his lawyer may believe he has no case and desists, but the course depends upon whether the parties have not died, grown tired, gone into the hands of a receiver, or moved to Borneo. The jury know little as to this state of affairs and are not interested in the preliminary motions. The clients do not understand but think the lawyers are good talkers.

The lawyers are interested in the point of law and believe so strongly in their case that if an adverse ruling comes they are shocked and surprised. The judge knows that although he grant the motion to dismiss, he will probably allow an amendment. He is not greatly concerned unless he foresees a possibility of settling the dispute definitely and going on to the next case. He is anxious to try the present action and get down to the meat of the matter but really if they are going to insist on all technicalities he feels a little impatient.

He knows that even if the defendant is right and the pleadings are defective because the stenographer forgot to insert a date, it can still be put in. Recent legislation has found it necessary to say that the courts should allow amendments of pleadings where "Substantial Justice" will be accomplished thereby. It is a commentary on the system of the courts that the people through its legislatures should find it necessary to pass a law that judges should amend paper pleadings in furtherance of justice. If justice and right depend upon pieces of paper to such an extent, the dry formalism of the courts is a matter of regret.

The next important motion is when the plaintiff has put in his evidence and has rested. "The plaintiff rests," the lawyer says.

The judge and the jury say to themselves, "Well it is half over."

The defendant's lawyer rises and says, "I move to dismiss on the ground that the plaintiff has not made out a cause of action. He has not shown that the cow was owned by the defendant, or he has not shown that the driver of the plaintiff was free from contributory negligence, or he has not made out any kind of case at all."

This is an anxious moment for the young attorney. Did he forget something? What was there that he did not remember? Will the case be dismissed because he forgot to tie a shoe lace or put in a pin? If he is more experienced in court work he will not be so worried. The law is that the plaintiff must be given every chance at this stage of the proceeding. Only when both sides are through does the law begin to weigh the evidence. At the close of the plaintiff's case everything is in his favor. Any particle of testimony is sufficient on a particular point. The theory of the law is that both sides must be heard. If the motion to dismiss is made on the ground that something has been left out, the court will usually give an opportunity to prove to whom the red cow belonged. This motion like many other relics of a by-gone age, is a matter of custom and tradition. It is usually made on the theory that the judge may think there is no case and that the plaintiff can not make out a case. If he so decides, the case is finished, the jury is discharged, and the client has his feelings hurt by being thrown out of court.

From a decision of this kind there is also a right of appeal which may result in a reversal. Then the new jury is impanelled, the witnesses are recalled, and the proceedings are gone over once more. If the decision or judgment is affirmed, the case does not usually come up again; the higher court has said the plaintiff has no case on the evidence, and unless new evidence is produced he can never recover. In certain accident cases the appellate courts have stated they would not give their reasons for dismissing the complaint after the evidence is all in because, they say, if they did so they were afraid the plaintiff would supply the missing links by manufactured evidence on the next trial and not quite honestly. This again is a commentary on procedure.

Just at this point is where the law of the case comes in so insistently. Before the case comes to court the lawyer is supposed to know whether his client has a right of action. Every state of facts or a breach of those rights does not give rise to an action that can be maintained in a court of law. If you ask a man to dinner and he accepts, but does not come, you can not recover your damages for providing the dinner; or if you fall down your own well, you can not sue the man who built it. The lawyer is supposed to have carefully considered what elements of fact make an action. If the facts themselves do not give him a right of recovery his case is dismissed; or if he has a cause of action but has not proven the facts, it is also dismissed.

But as was said above, if the train of facts or those in the pleading is imperfect, the modern spirit is to allow them to be made perfect. The only theory of law that is contrary to this spirit is what is known as the theory that every man is entitled to his day in court and the day being had it is unfair to bring the other side in again on account of some defect or forgetfulness on the part of the other.

The reconciliation is that there should be no surprises on a trial, the modern tendency is to bring the case away from the idea of an ordeal by battle. The little advantages that are gained by sorties and surprises and which are usually taken advantage of by motion, are after all not of great moment.

An anomalous situation shows the absurdity of these motions, for when the plaintiff rests, unless the defendant makes a motion to dismiss the plaintiff's case, he is supposed to admit that the plaintiff has made a good prima facie case, and if he does not move he is forever after, on appeal or otherwise, prevented from claiming that the plaintiff did not make out a good case. The result is that at the close of the plaintiff's case the motion is usually made as a matter of form to preserve the defendant's right.

Usually this motion is denied if there is a possibility of making a case, but suppose the judge either through ignorance or to be obliging should say, "Well, the plaintiff has made out a good case, but if you ask it, the blood be upon your own shoulders, and I will dismiss the case." The defendant does not want it dismissed but he has asked for it and he has got what he asked for. The result is an anomalous situation. The case will undoubtedly be reversed and he will be mulcted in costs for being compelled to ask, because of the formalism of the court procedure, for what he did not want.

At the end of the defendant's case, when both sides have rested, the defendant again moves to dismiss. Here again it is a formal motion, which he may not altogether mean, but which the lawyer often makes as a matter of form. If the judge really believes there is not enough evidence to let the case go to the jury, he ought to say so without the necessity of a motion. Suppose there is not, he dismisses the case "on the merits" and the trial is over. But suppose there is and the judge does not know his business and the fine point of law is not entirely clear to his Honor, and he makes a mistake and the case is dismissed. The result is that although he has granted the motion of the defendant to dismiss and given the defendant what he wanted, he has in reality penalized him, for the appellate court will reverse his decision and the defendant have to pay all costs and stand the expense of a new trial. The judge is in a quandary, which he may get out of in two ways. One is to let the weak case of the plaintiff go to the jury with the hope that they will see what a poor showing the plaintiff has made and find a verdict for the defendant, in which event he will be safe. But if the jury should make a mistake and find for the plaintiff, then the judge has the intention of setting that verdict aside, nullifying all the work of the jury, the witnesses, the clients, and the lawyers, and ordering a new trial. This is rather a weak-minded proceeding and shows the necessity of having a man in the referee's chair who knows how to decide.

The second alternative for the judge is to reserve decision on the motion and to let the jury go into the jury-room and worry about the verdict for an hour or two, while the judge has the hidden intention of perhaps deciding that they need not spend any time at all about the matter.

The principle on which the judge passes on this motion to dismiss is, that after all the case is in and all proof had, that on the proof and evidence there is not enough on the part of the plaintiff from which any reasonable man could ever find a verdict for him. The motion differs from the one at the close of the plaintiff's case in that the latter is based on there being no proof at all, while the one after the case is entirely in is based on the theory that there is no possibility of a verdict.

This sounds again like a metaphysical discussion, but is illustrative of the futility of formal motions, so that actually the decision depends upon the good plain common sense of the judge. The tendency is that if the case has gone to the length of a full trial and there is any question of fact involved, that the jury should determine the question of fact and exercise their functions. It must be a poor weak case of the plaintiff and evidently unsound, in which the judge or the appellate court interferes.

Throughout the trial the little motions that occur bear the same relation to the main issue as do the objections and exceptions.

"I tried to stop the car," says the motorman.

Up jumps the other lawyer. "I move to strike out as a conclusion."

The witnesses have testified to slightly different facts than what were stated in the pleadings. "I move to amend the pleadings to conform to the proof," says the lawyer.

"I move for an adjournment on the ground of surprise," says the other.

Of course the statement of the conductor is a conclusion of fact. But if the other side wants to find out how he tried to stop the car, let him ask what was done. "Did he turn on the brake handle? Did he switch on the emergency?" A man does not have to be an expert to say that the car was going fast; he may be examined as to what he considers to be fast. Nor does he have to be an expert to say that eggs are rotten, that butter is rancid, that there has been a war in Europe, that a man has a broken leg or looks sick or acts queerly, that the fish is stale or the cow was red.

The motion to strike out does not affect the jury, the testimony still remains on the jurors' minds. The verbal memory stays. Neither does the motion to amend the pleadings affect the jury. What have they got to do with it? If the papers are amended it is not important from their standpoint. Should the plaintiff have written a letter that he was going to sue for something, to the jury that seems better than any pleading.

These motions are insignificant and examples of a formalism which, however valuable it may be as defining the methods of the legal battle, are not consistent with the modern spirit of investigation into facts. It is rather significant that the laws creating Public Service Commissions and Legislative Investigation Committees in some States go to the length of stating that there shall not be any rules of evidence such as are employed in the courts of law.

The other motions, such as to direct a verdict, which is usually the same as a motion to dismiss, and the motions after a verdict has been rendered, are also formal statements of a request for the disposition of the case.

They may be all very good and useful in their way, but are merely the incidents and measures by which the truth of the matter is reached. The client looks puzzled at the argument and the decision, the jurors have a not very clear conception of what is going on, the lawyers have a meretricious feeling that perhaps they are cheapening themselves a little by making so many motions, yet they, nevertheless, have a legal right to do so and they must take advantage of every legal right for the protection of their clients.

After all the witnesses have been called, the plaintiff and the defendant have proved their sides, the plaintiff has contradicted the new evidence of the defendant, everybody has been examined, the interruptions of the objections and motions, exceptions have been had, the judge asks if both sides are through and the presentation of the case is ended.

The course of justice has been on a rough and rather narrow road. The popular revolt at the method of arriving at the truth is, in fact, at the narrowness of the way. The presentation of a case and the means of reaching the truth ought to be on a well-defined and orderly system. It would seem natural that the crooked and ill-paved streets of an old town should give place to the open, smooth, and broad avenues of the modern spirit.



XIII

ELOCUTION

At last when both sides rest and the judge has passed on the latest motions, the intense action of the drama begins. For this the clients have been waiting, the lawyers have been training. It is the opportunity for them to display their attainments, to show their clients what brilliant lawyers they have retained; to let the judge know how well they have understood the case; to move and sway the jury to their side; to unravel the mysteries and by the power of oratory to bring justice where she belongs. When his lawyer is talking, the client watches him with admiration, but while the opposing lawyer speaks the client can hardly conceal his contempt. He feels that his case is secure and he does not understand how there can be anything to be said on the other side. Yet he is fearful there may be some court trick which he does not understand and the case may be lost.

"Your Honor and gentlemen of the jury," begins the defendant's lawyer. Including the judge in his address, although it is a matter of courtesy for the eloquence of the summing up, is meant solely for the jury. The judge is only supposed to listen and restrain the attorneys if they go too far afield in their attempts to influence the jury by their efforts. The judge is the time keeper or referee and holds the lawyers to the point.

The object of the attack is the jury. As the burden of proving a case is on the plaintiff, he is supposed to have the first and the last word; therefore, the defendant begins to sum up. After he is through, it is the turn of the plaintiff. The tactical position is in favor of the plaintiff. The advantage, as in all verbal disputes, is reputedly with the man who has the last word. In all debates the proponent has the right of opening and closing. The plaintiff began the case with his opening, and after it is over he is permitted to close.

"Gentlemen," says the judge, "how long will you take in your address?" Both sides agree upon a certain time, which usually proves too short, but which is acquiesced in with alacrity because each side thinks their case is so plain and convincing that it will not be difficult to explain. The lawyer girds up his loins, the court-room quiets, the struggle of conflicting evidence is over, the clients and witnesses retire from the foreground, the other counsel sits down and the lawyer steps close to the jury-box.

"The jury is yours," says the judge, as though he were abandoning the jury. Indeed the summing up is an attack, a vivid, keen, masterly struggle in which wit and brain is pitted against wit and brain: where facts and passions are to be marshalled in the most intelligent and plausible way, where imagination and oratory are to be employed in their finest capacities. It may be bold, manly, energetic, or soft and persuasive; it may appeal to sympathy or threaten with a battery of accumulated facts. Forensic oratory is the highest type of art, the most powerful of human gifts. The only trouble with most court oratory is that it is only fit for the market-place. The lawyer begins with the firm impression that he must win the jury. His voice is bland and soothing, he feels that he must be soft and persuasive. He rubs his hands and remembering the old adage, that laugh and the world laughs with you, attempts a little joke. There is nothing so good as to get a smile for his side. Perhaps the joke does not go very well and the laugh does not come; the point has missed. He will try what flattery can do.

"Men of your intelligence can readily see," he says.

"When I was examining you," he explains in a subtle way. "I knew at once how unprejudiced and fair-minded you were."

"You gentlemen are practical men and can understand." Yet somehow the jury are impervious. They sit back in their chairs and stare.

Then the lawyer begins to forget the object of ingratiating himself. Hypnotized by the memory of his client's wrongs, he works himself into a frenzy of feeling. He swings his arms, pounds with his fist, raises his voice, and thunders his denunciation. His speech takes on a threatening tone. He shouts and bawls; the jury must be waked up. They sit stolid and unmoved. He tries to catch their eye, there is no gleam of interest. Perhaps he has rather a hopeless feeling that the art of oratory is not what it is reputed to be. The jury look particularly unresponsive. Even that one little juror, with the clever, smart face, who is leaning forward with such an expression of enjoyment may not be altogether trustworthy. The lawyer has seen that kind before and the one juror who seemed the most interested in the last case he argued was the very one who held out against him in the jury-room as he found afterwards. It seems a difficult matter to stir the jury and the men in the box are not at all a warm or enthusiastic audience.

The jury are not particularly keen about the oratory of the lawyer, they look upon him as paid to do his part. It is the portion of the trial they can understand; they have not clearly comprehended what went before. When the objections were being made and there were the cross-examination and badgering of witnesses, they could not separate in their minds the functions of the lawyer and the personality of the lawyer. It seemed as though he were doing a good many unfair things and not acting quite up to the mark, but now the atmosphere has cleared. They can realize that he is only the paid talker for his client, that he is only making all this noise because that is his business. To the jury he is the pleader employed as an actor. The position is simple; if any one would pay them for acting and gesticulating at so much per day or per hour, they would be very glad to earn the money.

The client watches the lawyer with affectionate admiration. True, he did not do exactly as he was wanted during the trial. He should have asked those questions he suggested, but now he is doing grandly. When the lawyer is through the client feels splendidly. He sees but one side of the case and believes in it absolutely. With such a good talker the jury cannot fail of being convinced.

When the lawyer sits down the client shakes him by the hand and tells him how well he has done. He might have been willing to settle the case for a thousand dollars before, but now he wouldn't pay a cent, not one cent. Later, should the jury find against him, even to the amount of the thousand dollars which he was willing to pay, he feels terribly disappointed. There must have been something very much amiss in the jury-room.

The judge while the summing up is going on, is not very attentive. His part of the case is over. While the proof was being given he was alert. True, the charge is coming afterwards, but he knows fairly well what he is going to say, and it is going to be formal. It is the function of the judge to control the address of counsel, but the counsel are sometimes very hard to control.

In the criminal trials, reference is made to the emotions of the defendant's family; the devoted, anxious wife, the poor little children who may bear the stigma of their father's disgrace, should the verdict go against him. Since the domestic life of neither party to the trial has appeared in evidence, such things being entirely "irrelevant and immaterial," it does not make a great deal of difference whether the picture is accurate or wholly fanciful. The defendant may be a drunkard, a burden to his wife, and a horror to his children; he may have abandoned his family to their own resources; it is possible that he has never had any family at all. The lawyer has no right to refer in his summing up, or otherwise, to anything that has not been properly submitted in evidence. He is guilty of unfair practice in telling the jury about the defendant's family or circumstances, unless this has been part of the case, which is improbable. He knows this well; so does his opponent and the judge. And should the opposing lawyer protest, the judge will say, looking up, "Be careful, counselor, be careful." The counselor bows respectfully and probably goes on in the same vein. The judge has not heard exactly what was said and feels that the lawyers, if they are not too blatant and noisy, may say what they please. There must not be too much talk about the wicked, money-grabbing, soulless corporation, not too much appeal for the down-trodden poor, nor an over indulgence in personalities. The lawyers must not call the other side liars and thieves too openly. That is, they may say they are untruthful, but liar is too strong. The denunciation must be a little restrained.

The judge throws out a rather mild admonition. "The counsellor must keep to the evidence. You may not refer to matters which are not before the court." The lawyer says, "Yes, your Honor." The judge withdraws again into a contemplation of the high cost of living and his diminishing bank balance. The shouting and vociferation grow louder. The jury are long-suffering, but they cannot object. The other lawyer jumps up, and after an insistent effort makes himself heard. "The witness did not say that; you are stating something that is not so. I ask to have the stenographer read the minutes." The stenographer begins turning over the pages of his stenographic book. The exact testimony of the lady in the car is hard to find. "Heavens," think the jury, "are we going to have the whole case over again?"

The lawyer who is talking complains, "If my friend is going to keep on with his objections I shall never get through in my fifteen minutes." The stenographer has not been able to find the exact spot. It is apparently not in the testimony. Then the lawyer objecting says, "I ask your Honor to instruct the jury to disregard the statement of counsel." The lawyer must have a sarcastic vein of humor. Such an instruction does not seem necessary. The judge says, "I will cover that in my charge, but I must ask the counsel to be careful," and he looks warningly at the clock.

Finally the hands point to the agreed time. The judge says, "Your time is up, counselor." "Just one minute more," says the lawyer and then he goes on for three. The judge raps on his desk. The lawyer winds up his speech in a hurried peroration. "Therefore, gentlemen, with the utmost confidence in your ability as men of experience and affairs, with the sure belief in the justness of my defense, I leave the matter in your hands."

The plaintiff's lawyer now takes the floor, the jury shift their feet and glance at the clock. "Gentlemen of the jury," he begins. He probably leaves out the judge. The plaintiff now having the attack is more direct. It is rather significant of the change in all procedure that the language of all court addresses is becoming more and more simple. The old days when the lawyers delivered homilies of Latin have disappeared. No longer does the lawyer refer to nunc pro tunc, or make facetious jokes in a language the layman and probably the court does not understand. If a lawyer makes too many Latin quotations, the court thinks him affected. He must be simple, direct, and to the point at issue.

His art in presenting his case consists in drawing the picture of the facts so vividly that they will remain in the jurors' minds. Employing his imagination in forming the concept, he gets it across the rail to the jury by the fine gift of selecting words and incidents. No one, it is said, is ever convinced by argument, but any one can realize a visualized picture of words.

The counsel starts to storm and abuse his opponents and his opponents' client, and in his wrath also forgetting that persuasion is not accomplished by denunciation. The majority of the jury are rather easy-going, kindly men, who do not care to hear others made too vile. Just as satire is more effective than direct abuse the tolerant juryman prefers to have the other party laughed at than called names.

The clients become worked up over their wrongs and excited by their lawyers' oratory. When the case is over they are extremely surprised to see the men who have been shaking their fists and ready to spring at one another's throats, quietly lock arms and go out to lunch together. It is all in the day's work and they must fortify themselves for the next trial. The shock is something like that when, after a melodrama, the heroine having jumped over the bridge and died in a whirlpool, comes out quietly and, in spite of her suffering, bows smilingly before the curtain.