An American Tragedy - Theodore Dreiser [397]
Chapter 25
The mood of Mason throughout the entire direct examination was that of a restless harrier anxious to be off at the heels of its prey— of a foxhound within the last leap of its kill. A keen and surging desire to shatter this testimony, to show it to be from start to finish the tissue of lies that in part at least it was, now animated him. And no sooner had Jephson concluded than he leaped up and confronted Clyde, who, seeing him blazing with this desire to undo him, felt as though he was about to be physically attacked.
“Griffiths, you had that camera in your hand at the time she came toward you in the boat?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She stumbled and fell and you accidentally struck her with it?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t suppose in your truthful and honest way you remember telling me there in the woods on the shore of Big Bittern that you never had a camera?”
“Yes, sir—I remember that.”
“And that was a lie, of course?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And told with all the fervor and force that you are now telling this other lie?”
“I’m not lying. I’ve explained why I said that.”
“You’ve explained why you said that! You’ve explained why you said that! And because you lied there you expect to be believed here, do you?”
Belknap rose to object, but Jephson pulled him down.
“Well, this is the truth, just the same.”
“And no power under heaven could make you tell another lie here, of course—not a strong desire to save yourself from the electric chair?”
Clyde blanched and quivered slightly; he blinked his red, tired eyelids. “Well, I might, maybe, but not under oath, I don’t think.”
“You don’t think! Oh, I see. Lie all you want wherever you are— and at any time—and under any circumstances—except when you’re on trial for murder!”
“No, sir. It isn’t that. But what I just said is so.”
“And you swear on the Bible, do you, that you experienced a change of heart?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That Miss Alden was very sad and that was what moved you to experience this change of heart?”
“Yes, sir. That’s how it was.”
“Well, now, Griffiths, when she was up there in the country and waiting for you—she wrote you all those letters there, did she not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You received one on an average of every two days, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you knew she was lonely and miserable there, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir—but then I’ve explained—”
“Oh, you’ve explained! You mean your lawyers have explained it for you! Didn’t they coach you day after day in that jail over there as to how you were to answer when the time came?”
“No, sir, they didn’t!” replied Clyde, defiantly, catching Jephson’s eye at this moment.
“Well, then when I asked you up there at Bear Lake how it was that his girl met her death—why didn’t you tell me then and save all this trouble and suspicion and investigation? Don’t you think the public would have listened more kindly and believingly there than it will now after you’ve taken five long months to think it all out with the help of two lawyers?”
“But I didn’t think it out with any lawyers,” persisted Clyde, still looking at Jephson, who was supporting him with all his mental strength. “I’ve just explained why I did that.”
“You’ve explained! You’ve explained!” roared Mason, almost beside himself with the knowledge that this false explanation was sufficient of a shield or barrier for Clyde to hide behind whenever he found himself being too hard pressed—the little rat! And so now he fairly quivered with baffled rage as he proceeded.
“And before you went up—while she was writing them to you—you considered them sad, didn’t you?”
“Why, yes, sir. That is”—he hesitated incautiously—”some parts of them anyhow.”
“Oh, I see—only some parts of them now. I thought you just said you considered them sad.”
“Well, I do.”
“And did.”
“Yes, sir—and did.” But Clyde’s eyes were beginning to wander nervously in the direction of Jephson, who was fixing him as with a beam of light.
“Remember her writing you this?” And here Mason picked up and opened one of the letters and began reading: “Clyde—I shall certainly die, dear, if you don