An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

me, and you’re going to be my client, and we’re going to sit

down together to-morrow, or whenever you say so, and

you’re going to tell me all you think I ought to know, and I’m

going to tell you what I think I ought to know, and whether

I’m going to be able to help you. And I’m going to prove to

you that in every way that you help me, you’re helping

yourself, see? And I’m going to do my damnedest to get

you out of this. Now, how’s that, Clyde?”

He smiled most encouragingly and sympathetically—even

affectionately. And Clyde, feeling for the first time since his

arrival here that he had found some one in whom he could

possibly confide without danger, was already thinking it

might be best if he should tell this man all—everything—he

could not have said why, quite, but he liked him. In a quick,

if dim way he felt that this man understood and might even

sympathize with him, if he knew all or nearly all. And after

Belknap had detailed how eager this enemy of his—Mason

—was to convict him, and how, if he could but devise a

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reasonable defense, he was sure he could delay the case

until this man was out of office, Clyde announced that if he

would give him the night to think it all out, to-morrow or any

time he chose to come back, he would tell him all.

And then, the next day Belknap sitting on a stool and

munching chocolate bars, listened while Clyde before him

on his iron cot, poured forth his story—all the details of his

life since arriving at Lycurgus—how and why he had come

there, the incident of the slain child in Kansas City, without,

however, mention of the clipping which he himself had

preserved and then forgotten; his meeting with Roberta,

and his desire for her; her, pregnancy and how he had

sought to get her out of it—on and on until, she having

threatened to expose him, he had at last, and in great

distress and fright, found the item in The Times-Union and

had sought to emulate that in action. But he had never

plotted it personally, as Belknap was to understand. Nor

had he intentionally killed her at the last. No, he had not.

Mr. Belknap must believe that, whatever else he thought.

He had never deliberately struck her. No, no, no! It had

been an accident. There had been a camera, and the tripod

reported to have been found by Mason was unquestionably

his tripod. Also, he had hidden it under a log, after

accidentally striking Roberta with the camera and then

seeing that sink under the waters, where no doubt it still

was, and with pictures of himself and Roberta on the film it

contained, if they were not dissolved by the water. But he

had not struck her intentionally. No—he had not. She had

approached and he had struck, but not intentionally. The

boat had upset. And then as nearly as he could, he

described how before that he had seemed to be in a trance

almost, because having gone so far he could go no farther.

But in the meantime, Belknap, himself finally wearied and

confused by this strange story, the impossibility as he now

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saw it of submitting to, let alone convincing, any ordinary

backwoods jury of this region, of the innocence of these

dark and bitter plans and deeds, finally in great weariness

and uncertainty and mental confusion, even, getting up and

placing his hands on Clyde’s shoulders, saying: “Well, that’ll

be enough of this for to-day, Clyde, I think. I see how you

felt and how it all came about—also I see how tired you are,

and I’m mighty glad you’ve been able to give me the

straight of this, because I know how hard it’s been for you

to do it. But I don’t want you to talk any more now. There

are going to be other days, and I have a few things I want

to attend to before I take up some of the minor phases of

this with you to-morrow or next day. Just you sleep and rest

for the present. You’ll need all you can get for the work both

of us will have to do a little later. But just now, you’re not to

worry, because there’s no need of it, do you see? I’ll get

you out of this—or we will—my partner and I. I have a

partner that I’m going to bring around here presently. You’ll

like him, too. But there are one or two things that I want you

to think about and stick to—and one of these is that you’re

not to let anybody frighten you into anything, because either

myself or my partner will be around here once a day

anyhow, and anything you have to say or want to know you

can say or find out from us. Next you’re not to talk to

anybody—Mason, the sheriff, these jailers, no one—unless

I tell you to. No one, do you hear! And above all things,

don’t cry any more. For if you are as innocent as an angel,

or as black as the devil himself, the worst thing you can do

is to cry before any one. The public and these jail officers

don’t understand that—they invariably look upon it as

weakness or a confession of guilt. And I don’t want them to

feel any such thing about you now, and especially when I

know that you’re really not guilty. I know that now. I believe

it. See! So keep a stiff upper lip before Mason and

everybody.

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“In fact, from now on I want you to try and laugh a little—or

at any rate, smile and pass the time of day with these

fellows around here. There’s an old saying in law, you

know, that the consciousness of innocence makes any man

calm. Think and look innocent. Don’t sit and brood and look

as though you had lost your last friend, because you

haven’t. I’m here, and so is my partner, Mr. Jephson. I’ll

bring him around here in a day or two, and you’re to look

and act toward him exactly as you have toward me. Trust

him, because in legal matters he’s even smarter than I am

in some ways. And to-morrow I’m going to bring you a

couple of books and some magazines and papers, and I

want you to read them or look at the pictures. They’ll help

keep your mind off your troubles.”

Clyde achieved a rather feeble smile and nodded his head.

“From now on, too,—I don’t know whether you’re at all

religious—but whether you are or not, they hold services

here in the jail on Sundays, and I want you to attend ’em

regularly—that is, if they ask you to. For this is a religious

community and I want you to make as good an impression

as you can. Never mind what people say or how they look—

you do as I tell you. And if this fellow Mason or any of those

fellows around here get to pestering you any more, send

me a note.

“And now I’ll be going, so give me a cheerful smile as I go

out—and another one as I come in. And don’t talk, see?”

Then shaking Clyde briskly by the shoulders and slapping

him on the back, he strode out, actually thinking to himself:

“But do I really believe that this fellow is as innocent as he

says? Would it be possible for a fellow to strike a girl like

that and not know that he was doing it intentionally? And

then swimming away afterwards, because, as he says, if he

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went near her he thought he might drown too. Bad. Bad!

What twelve “men are going to believe that? And that bag,

those two hats, that missing suit! And yet he swears he

didn’t intentionally strike her. But what about all that

planning—the intent—which is just as bad in the eyes of the

law. Is he telling the truth or is he lying even now—perhaps

trying to deceive himself as well as me? And that camera—

we ought to get hold of that before Mason finds it and

introduces it. And that suit. I ought to find that and mention

it, maybe, so as to offset the look of its being hidden—say

that we had it all the time—send it to Lycurgus to be

cleaned. But no, no—wait a minute—I must think about

that.”

And so on, point by point, while deciding wearily that

perhaps it would be better not to attempt to use Clyde’s

story at all, but rather to concoct some other story—this one

changed or modified in some way which would make it

appear less cruel or legally murderous.

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Chapter 15