And we had a blow or two which were unexpected, at that.
One was the proof that Sarah had indeed written the letter to Jim, as claimed by the state.
A photograph had been made of her blotter and greatly enlarged, and certain words had come out clearly enough.
So far as they could put the words together, allowing for certain undecipherable places, she had written somewhat as follows:
“Dear Mr. Blake: I must see you as soon as possible on a very urgent matter.
When I tell you that I believe that there is a—”
The first page had ended there, or she had used less pressure, for that was all.
And even in this only certain words were at all clear; “urgent” and “possible” and “believe,” for example.
But the “Dear Mr. Blake” was beyond dispute.
Katherine, too, had her own particular shock to face. This was the reconstruction of that charred fragment of a letter from her to Jim, which had been found in his fireplace.
“Your message alarms—What am I not to say?”
She had no warning. She had not expected to be called, and I am sure she had not the slightest idea of what was to confront her on the stand.
“Can you identify this?”
“I don’t even know what it is.”
She put up her lorgnette, stared down at that flat board, then lifted her head slightly.
“Do you recognize it now?”
“I think it is something I have written.”
“To the defendant?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember when you wrote that?”
“No.”
“Or how you sent it?
By mail?”
She was under oath, and she would not lie.
“By hand.”
“By whose hand?”
“By my chauffeur.
I was sending certain things to my brother by car, and the letter went with them.”
We know now that that was true, that she had had no idea then that Jim’s mail was being watched.
But on the face of it the admission was fatal, and when later on she was asked to explain that sentence and refused, there was little more to be done.
In the eyes of the jury and of the audience that day Katherine had as much as admitted that she knew something about the crime which she was “not to say.”
And the next question, ruled not competent by the court, was not only designed to show that, but had a sinister purpose not lost on the jury or the crowd.
“Did you see your brother the night he went to New York?”
“What night was that?”
“The night of your husband’s death.”
“I did not,” said Katherine haughtily.
“He was not in New York that night.”
But the effect had been made.
The introduction of Charles Parrott was likewise fought, but on the District Attorney’s statement that he was important to their case he was put on the stand, and he made his semi-identification.
“He’s the same height and the same build,” he said, “but he was pretty well covered.
It looks like him, but that’s as far as I go.”
The purpose of the prosecution was then revealed.
Judy was unwillingly obliged to say that the telephone call had been apparently from Jim, and Howard’s checkbook was introduced.
It was shown that on the day, or night, of his death he had drawn a check to cash for a thousand dollars.
The book was found on his desk in the morning, with the stub so marked.
This check had not been presented, but evidence was introduced to show that two days before Jim had called up a local steamship agency and inquired about sailings. And underlying all this, brought out again and again, was the sinister reference that when Jim had left the apartment in New York that night, or just before he left, Howard was dead.
Judy made a fine witness, and she got over more than the prosecution allowed to enter the record; she deliberately talked until they stopped her, and I think the jury found her a bright spot in a long day.
“Why hasn’t Mr. Waite been murdered?” she asked once, out of a clear sky.
“Why wasn’t he the first to go?”
And again, relative to the finding of the cipher, she brought a laugh.