Radio Mirror: The Magazine of Radio Romances (Jan-June 1943)

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MAIL COUPON AT ONCE POLICY PAYS Hospital Expenses for Sickness or Accident up to $540.00 Doctor Expense up to $135.00 Loss of Time from Work up to $300.00 Loss of Life $1000.00 War Coverage ...And other valuable benefits. NORTH AMERICAN MUTUAL INSURANCE CO. Dept. MC35 6, Wilmington, Del. Please send me, without obligation, details about your "3c A Day Hospitalization Insurance Plan". Name.~ — ............ ............. . * Addreit............................... ... — .... City -State — ... 70 being called. Mechanically I got up. That part of the trial was like a dream. I heard my own voice, giving answers to Tom's questions, and by doing as he'd said, keeping my eyes on him and forgetting the rest of the courtroom, it wasn't so bad. But it was like a dash of cold water when Tom stepped aside and said, "Your witness, Mr. Morgan." It hadn't occurred to me that Barrett Morgan would cross-examine me. I wanted to jump from the chair and run. I had told the truth, nothing but the truth, but if he stood in front of me and questioned me as I knew lawyers could, I'd break down, I'd contradict myself, I'd do Mike more harm than good . . . Morgan said quietly, "No crossexamination." Trembling, I left the witness chair and went back to my seat. 'C'VEN to me, it seemed momentarily -*-* strange that Morgan's speech to the jury was so brief — so almost indifferent. He talked about Mike's crime, and about the wave of petty offenses which had been committed in the city by boys and girls of Mike's age, and he ended, "We, as citizens of Weston, owe a duty to ourselves and each other. It is to face these crimes and end them by bringing to bear upon the offenders the punishment of the law." Then, when he sat down, Tom got up to speak in his turn — and I saw and heard an utterly new Tom Kenward. All the cocky self-confidence was gone. He leaned over the railing and talked to the jury, sometimes simply and quietly, sometimes with an intense, vibrant conviction that rang out through the courtroom. He wove a fabric of truth that no one could deny. I can't give you his words, and perhaps they wouldn't mean enough without the tones of his voice. But the real criminal in Mike's case, he said, wasn't Mike himself. It was the neglect that had let Mike and his friends run wild, without proper playgrounds, without things they could do that would interest them, without hope for the future. He made us see the slums and he made us feel the heirless boredom of an energetic boy when there is nowhere for him to go, nothing to do except stand about on the streets with other boys as idle as himself. He made us know the terrible waste. He told the jury that they might not find Mike innocent, but that if he was guilty, so was everyone in Weston. And then he stopped, and everything was jumble and anti-climax, after the clearness and simplicity of what he had said. The judge talked for a. while, and all at once the jury was filing out, and Tom put his hand on mine. "You mustn't be disappointed," he said, "when they bring in a verdict of guilty. We've got to expect that. I'm counting on the jury's recommendation." I hardly heard him. His speech had done something that all the* unhappiness of Mike's arrest hadn't — it had made me cry. We were still sitting at the long table when the jury returned. I heard the rustle of the courtroom, then someone saying, "Guilty . . . recommend that sentence be suspended . . ." and then Tom stood up and slapped Mike on the back. People moved around and the judge disappeared, and Tom was smiling at me, and I only had time to kiss Mike before someone led him away. "I don't understand — is everything all right?" I managed tc. ask Tom. "I hope so," he said. "It ought to be. The jury recommended a suspended sentence — that means letting Mike go free unless he pulls another fool trick. Now it's up to the judge — he's in his chambers and he just sent word he wanted to talk to Mike there. I'll be back in a minute." He hurried away, and I looked around, things beginning to fall into their proper places again. People were leaving the courtroom, the doors swinging back and forth as they passed through. I saw Barrett Morgan standing near a little door at the side of the room, near the judge's bench. He looked tired and discouraged, and I had my little moment of triumph — but somehow it didn't mean anything. Tom came back. "Mike's with the judge," he said. "No telling how long they'll be. We'd better go — I gave the bailiff your number to call as soon as there's any news." He took my arm and led me toward the door. "But it's in the bag," he said "The judge can't ignore the jury's recommendation." "Free!" I said it aloud. It was a beautiful word, so beautiful that it unlocked the emotions I had had inside me, unable to express. "Oh, Tom," I said, "you were wonderful!" "Not bad, if I do say so," he said with a laugh that was just unsteady enough to tell me that it wasn't easy for him to appear nonchalant. "It does something for you, to get up in front of a jury and — well, know you're making them think the way you want them to." ALL the way home, he talked as if he ' couldn't stop, as if all the taut stress of the trial was finding its release in a rush of words. I was content to walk beside him, savoring my happiness, only half listening. "Let's wait for the call in your room," Tom suggested. "Don't tell me that ogre of a landlady would have any objections in broad daylight." "All right," I agreed. "Though it isn't much prettier than this, to tell the truth." I took him up to the room and then went into Mrs. Mecinski's kitchen to tell her that I was home and expecting an important telephone call. She wanted to know all about the trial, and it was long minutes before I could escape from her. When I got back, finally, Tom was standing looking out of my window, whistling softly, his hands thrust into his pockets. He turned, smiling. "Boy!" he said. "I feel wonderful. Don't you?" "Yes," I told him. "More than wonderful— so happy I — I don't know what to do." He came over to me swiftly and took my hands. "Poor little kid," he said tenderly. "It's been tough on you. You didn't really think we could pull it off, did you?" "I — only hoped you would. And of course we can't be quite sure yet. How long," I worried, "will it be before we hear?" "Oh, I don't know — maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour or so," Tom said carelessly. I tried to free my hands from his grasp, but he still held them strongly. "What's the matter?" he asked softly, an undercurrent of laughter running through his voice. "Don't you think we've earned the right to forget about Mike for a while?" I didn't answer. I looked into his face, and back of its gaiety I saw determination, the same ruthless will I had sensed in him so often before. It