The next witness was a pawnbroker the police dug up. Spokane had sold him a piece of jewelry. It was identified by the loser and put in evidence. The witness identified me as the one who sold it to him and produced his book showing a fictitious name Spokane had signed. I got alarmed and protested loudly. Spokane, who was in court, jumped up and cried out to the judge that he pawned the article. The court ordered him to sit down, and my lawyer told him if he testified to that, he would be convicted on his own statement of receiving it from me, when his trial came on. Our attorney tried to get a sample of my handwriting before the jury. The prosecutors objected, and the judge ruled that no exemplars could be admitted in evidence unless they were written before the burglary was committed. I could not dig up any that old, and the case went to the jury with no defense except my sworn denial of guilt. When the jury disappeared in their room and court was adjourned, I lit a cigarette. Before I had half finished, the jury was back with their verdict, “Guilty, as charged.” Spokane’s trial was set, but I made affidavit that he was an innocent tool in the matter, and he was dismissed. He worried himself sick because of his carelessness in getting me arrested and in a few months fell a victim of tuberculosis. His devoted wife contracted it in nursing him and long before I was at liberty they were both dead and buried. In due time I was sentenced to eight years at Folsom. The case went on appeal to the supreme court and I settled down for a long wait in the old Broadway county jail. My case gave me food for much interesting thought. I was guilty. Justice had overtaken me. But let us see how justice fared. It seemed to me that the blind goddess got a tough deal herself. Everybody connected with the case outraged her. The first judge took money. The coppers framed me in. The witnesses perjured themselves. The second judge was so feloniously righteous that he stood in with the framing. My lawyer was a receiver of stolen goods—even stole some from me. And the police told me that the Jewelers’ Association beat them out of the reward. That’s one side of the case; here’s another. The jeweler was bankrupt. The Canadian authorities spent ten thousand dollars. The state of California had to feed and clothe me while I was in prison. Here’s another side of it. Spokane and his wife died of T.B. that he contracted while in jail; and “justice” overtook Irish Annie for what she had done to me. Not very pleasant reflections; especially when I had to admit to myself that I was the cause of everything from the burglary to the punishment of Annie, and all that happened in between them. Yet this burglary is by no means unique. It frequently happens that the initial loss in dollars and cents is as nothing compared to the wrong and injury that radiate from such crimes like ripples on a pond. CHAPTER XXIII