Townsend Harris High School - Crimson Gold Yearbook (Flushing, NY)

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Type that attracts men. I know. Like that boob over there, she thought, while gazing at Hammond. Mrs. Simmons' glasses gleamed unequivocally, as far as she was concerned the witness' testimony was false. A point in the defendanfs favor . . . 66It's a shame that Thompson had to be here, and with a sick wife at home, thought Jensen, the enlightened day-laborer. He looked sympathetically at his friend WiHiam. Too bad? ulntelligent jurymen here. Good citizens . . . said the defense lawyer. Jensen thought that maybe the Negro wasn't so bad after all. Sure a lesson would do Thompson good, anyhow. Cathy had been Jensen's girl before Thompson got her. It still hurt. He settled down in his seat and picked at the callouses on his thumb. Michailoff, professor of sociology, of medium size, but distinguished looking, a man of obvious intellect, and Mallory Malt- bie, embryo actor, composed a study in con- trasts. The professor appeared entirely and deliberately oblivious of his associates, they were just so much dirt. He followed the pro- ceedings with sleepy, half-closed eyes. Now and then his peculiar blond eyelashes flut- tered nervously like butterflies in distress. But Michailoifis brain, an intellectual ma- chine, worked almost involuntarily. '4And suppose the Negro did kill a white man. The fellow probably deserved it anyhow. The worm must turn sometime. He pulled down the corners of his lips. Ah, what fools they all are. Wasting time. Especially the judge. Michailoff knew the price paid for the judge- ship . . . His countenance, slightly animated during his soliloquy, resumed its former languorous, somnolent expression. But Mallory Maltbie wouldn't be caught napping. Not he! His distinguishing char- acteristics were a pale, ragged, defeated-look- ing moustache, and a pair of immense silver rimmed glasses, which he nervously put on and took off . Somehow, though, Maltbie was attractive, he looked so earnest, pathetically earnest, so eager to learn, so gentle, that he possessed a kind of charm, there was nothing irritating in his disposition. He was a would- be actor. That's whv he sported the terrific name, Mallory Maltbie. He used his position on the jury to good purpose-so he thought. He was gathering dramatic material, watch- ing the faces and movements of the two lawyers, studying the reactions of his asso- ciates, memorizing the ponderouslv iudicial tone of the judge. He thought, '4Maybe I can portray some of these actions in my next role. page sixty-three WZ S ' i x E I 4-sf X f Z e 1 ' . K N tl r I lx lx ez QW 'T ' E g' s ,4 f , ' ie-XE ' e. -Y 5 C5

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2 ff: S'5 at 'Z 4 .fm wang' ' ,925 fl!! re 47 .Y si 7 A! Xen 'F A il.. f Ulf 5' Brown's skin was two shades lighter than his accused compatriot's, and his nose was straighter. The clothier, Krinsky, was a thick, heavy set man, with a nondescript moustache and friendly, inquiring eyes. He was following the proceedings with evident interest. He worked his ugly, intelligent face convulsively and ruminated, Business is slow. A little rest will do me good. It makes nice pocket money-the pay I get. He saw Master's stupid, frightened face and remarked half aloud, '4Ah, the poor colored man Next wit- ness! cried the court clerk, Krinsky shifted his bulk, he resumed his interest in the trial. A girl, pretty, in a cheap, 6'imitation way, hair carefully shingled, shoes with ridiculous spike heels, ascended the stand, she deftly ar- ranged her skirt so that the sheer, transparent hose might not be too concealing. A good eye- ful for those simps on the jury, she thought. It would help to keep the home fires burning -and burn that lousy chocolate bar. She crossed her legs . . . the electrician, Schlagel, sat next to Krinsky. Schlagel was narrow to the core. His old-fashioned spectacles, his thin, bloodless lips, his sharp-nosed face, all these showed what the man was. When Hyman Krinsky muttered aloud, Schlagel shot a look loaded with venom and hate at him. Working at electrical repairs, day in and day out, Schlagel had time to think. He had drawn up an iron-bound indictment against all men whom he did not like, that is, men with noses like Krinsky's and skin like Master's. Chinks and .laps filled out his cate- gory of the damned. His sentiments were astonishingly sincere. He thought, 6'Dirty--l He smells like a sweat-shopla' To Schlagel the testimony was irrelevant. What need had prejudice of evidence? Masters, in Schlagel's mind, was already a dead man. '6That plump little steno has nice lipsf' whispered Charley Hammond, the demon salesman, to himself- and legs. Lookit those lips, willya? Like little red trap-doors opening and closing. His watery blue eyes were animated. He pulled at his weak chin. He considered dating her. But the darned trial cramped his style. Still, he was enjoying himself, it was like a free movie, he just sat, and he was being paid for it, too. But that 'rl . . . gl Mrs. Ada Simmons, fat and 60, a depart- ment store supervisor, curved her lips and looked at the petite witness contemptuously. She heaved her ample bosom scornfully. 6'Nasty little snip. Met too many like her. page sixty-two

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I must get that peculiar inflection . . . Mal- lory played the part of a court-room attend- ant who appeared on the stage for one and one-half minutes. At least l1e was enjoying himself. But the evidence was not digested. Pasquale Romano agreed with Charles Hammond. He licked his lips. The girl was pretty. But Pasquale was sober, not frivolous, conscientous, not devil-may-care. That's how he had learned his English. Perseverance . . . night school. He had no time for playing around. Besides, there was the wife. Romano understood the proceedings. His mind was still open . . . A prominent figure in the jury box was Ali Gatore, spiritualist, fakir, seer. He felt that the dazzling combination of his jet-black, pointed beard and his gleaming, deep-set eyes was most effective. He wrinkled up his fore- head. That was to showyhis evident interest in the testimony. It was only part of it that he got, for he was busy looking exceptionally intelligent. However, Ali sympathized with Masters. After all, a man named McCutcheon . . . He had once been socked by a fellow of that name because he had told McCutcheon's wife she would meet a tall, dark man. The wife spilled the beans. And McCutcheon was blonde. Ali Gatore bore a grudge against the whole Mc- tribe. A vote for the de- fendant . . . Perhaps the least blatant and most impres- sive of the jurymen was John Norton, broker extraordinary. He was the type-steel-gray hair, conservative, expensive suit. . . Norton was fully cognizant of the progress of the trial. He had heard the pleas and evidence with undiminished and judicial attention. True, he was slightly prejudiced because Mas- ters was a Negro, on the other hand, Joe, his chauffeur, was colored, and Mr. Norton found him an honest, dependable employee. He wondered if the Harvard coach would put his son, John, Jr., into the 6'big game. It was a little annoying that he was detained here in New York and would miss it . . . And the jury, twelve representatives of the People, was complete. On the next day, January 4, 1936, Judge Raymond called a mistrial. It was discov- ered that a juror ,one Charles Hammond, had telephoned witness Mae Flamm the previous night. His reasons were unknown, but his actions were illegal. jurors were to be aloof . . . A week later, on January 11, a new jury of intelligent citizens was paneled and the trial began anew . . . page sixty-four