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Afterward this last was eliminated, however; either he was guilty or he was not. The judge could
see as well as they could all the extenuating circumstances--perhaps better. Why tie his hands?
As a rule no attention was paid to such recommendations, anyhow, and it only made the jury
look wabbly.
So, finally, at ten minutes after twelve that night, they were ready to return a verdict; and Judge
Payderson, who, because of his interest in the case and the fact that he lived not so far away,
had decided to wait up this long, was recalled. Steger and Cowperwood were sent for. The
court-room was fully lighted. The bailiff, the clerk, and the stenographer were there. The jury
filed in, and Cowperwood, with Steger at his right, took his position at the gate which gave into
the railed space where prisoners always stand to hear the verdict and listen to any commentary
of the judge. He was accompanied by his father, who was very nervous.
For the first time in his life he felt as though he were walking in his sleep. Was this the real
Frank Cowperwood of two months before--so wealthy, so progressive, so sure? Was this only
December 5th or 6th now (it was after midnight)? Why was it the jury had deliberated so long?
What did it mean? Here they were now, standing and gazing solemnly before them; and here
now was Judge Payderson, mounting the steps of his rostrum, his frizzled hair standing out in a
strange, attractive way, his familiar bailiff rapping for order. He did not look at Cowperwood--it
would not be courteous-- but at the jury, who gazed at him in return. At the words of the clerk,
"Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?" the foreman spoke up, "We have."
"Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?"
"We find the defendant guilty as charged in the indictment."
How had they come to do this? Because he had taken a check for sixty thousand dollars which
did not belong to him? But in reality it did. Good Lord, what was sixty thousand dollars in the
sum total of all the money that had passed back and forth between him and George W. Stener?
Nothing, nothing! A mere bagatelle in its way; and yet here it had risen up, this miserable,
insignificant check, and become a mountain of opposition, a stone wall, a prison-wall barring his
further progress. It was astonishing. He looked around him at the court-room. How large and
bare and cold it was! Still he was Frank A. Cowperwood. Why should he let such queer thoughts
disturb him? His fight for freedom and privilege and restitution was not over yet. Good heavens!
It had only begun. In five days he would be out again on bail. Steger would take an appeal. He
would be out, and he would have two long months in which to make an additional fight. He was
not down yet. He would win his liberty. This jury was all wrong. A higher court would say so. It
would reverse their verdict, and he knew it. He turned to Steger, where the latter was having the
clerk poll the jury, in the hope that some one juror had been over-persuaded, made to vote
against his will.
"Is that your verdict?" he heard the clerk ask of Philip Moultrie, juror No. 1.
"It is," replied that worthy, solemnly.
"Is that your verdict?" The clerk was pointing to Simon Glassberg.
"Yes, sir."
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