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

Page 68 text:

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

Page 67 text:

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

Page 69 text:

STONE By Roger B. Goodman The cemetery at Breau was noted for the antiquity of some of its tombstones, and the fine examples of Puritan carving which were to be found on most of them. The thing that attracted my attention when I first went there, was not any particular stone or monu- ment, but the man in charge of the grounds. One could not say for certain that he was old. His springy walk and merry, twinkling eyes belied that. Yet there was something in his voice, a harshness, or maybe a strained, cracked quality, which made him seem old. He rarely .was in the shed erected for his use. He walked through the aisles of tombs, gazing intently at each one. He muttered continuously to himself as he walked, and sometimes he stopped and shook his head as if in despair. He seemed to be looking for something. He never spoke to visitors except when he shouted Grit oifa thar,', to some fool who posed for a picture while sitting on some monument. Pat, that was the name of the old keeper, detested being asked over and over again, How old is that, or, Whose grave is this?,' He ran away from people who approached him to speak with him. He enshrouded himself in an air of mystery. I first spoke with him on a quiet August evening when the pines surrounding the burial ground nodded sleepily to and fro. The sun, setting rapidly in the distance, cov- ered the area with a golden glow which was becoming mellower every minute. All seemed to rest. As I entered the iron gate at the side, I saw him standing beside a memorial. He was absorbed in contemplating it. I ap- proached him quietly. I could hear the mur- mur of his voice as he ceaselessly chatted to himself. The tomb contained The Mortal Remains of Jonathan White and His Loving Wife Emily. The top stone had two excellently preserved carvings of a man and a woman in Puritan garb. They represented the two sleeping beneath. Every word of the inscrip- tion could be clearly read. '6What sort of stone is that?,' I queried. He wheeled. His eyes travelled from my boots to my face. He stared at me. 46Hmph, he grunted, and turned away again. page sixty-five