The city jail was but a few blocks away and all four of us walked there together. They took me inside and unlocked the handcuffs. A man at a desk asked my name and age. I was then taken out the back door, and across a yard into the jail building and locked in a cell with a solid iron door, in a remote corner of the building. They didn’t threaten to beat me up, and asked no more questions. A jailer came at noon with a trusty, who put a pan of very good stew, a tin cup of coffee, and half a loaf of bread in the cell. I said to the jailer: “Mister, could I see a lawyer?” He shut the door and locked it without answering me. The door wasn’t opened again till midnight. I was lying awake on a bunk fighting bedbugs in the dark. It seemed they were trying to eat me alive. “Step out here, young man.” I stepped out in my stocking feet. “Put your shoes on, and come with us.” They were the same two men that arrested me. They took me out and up the streets into the next block where we stopped at an undertaker’s. They led me to a back room and up beside a table on which a figure was lying, covered by a long, sheetlike, white cloth. I stood there beside the table between the two officers for a moment. Then, suddenly, one of them snatched the sheet away from the upper part of the figure. The other shook me violently and shouted: “Did you ever see that man before?” I knew Smiler was there before he snatched the sheet off. When we went into the undertaker’s I felt they were going to show me his body, but I couldn’t understand why. I learned later that some people are unnerved at the sudden sight of a gruesome corpse, and, weakening, talk. It hurt me to look at Smiler, his smile forever gone, changed to a hideous, snarl-like grin, and a gaping hole in his throat. I couldn’t think of anything else, so I said: “I want to see an attorney, please.” “You’ll get a lawyer when we get done with you. You were with that fellow when he was shot and we are going to charge you with an attempt to commit burglary if you don’t tell us where you were night before last.” I was locked up again. The following day the two officers took me out to the booking desk where I was formally charged, and on the morning of the third day I went into the police court for my hearing. One of the shyster lawyers, or “stir steerers,” as the bums call them, came over to me. “They tell me you want a lawyer,” pointing to the officers. “Yes, I do.” “Got any money, or friends?” “I’ve got fifteen dollars in the office—and no friends.” “Give me an order for the money, and I’ll look after you,” he said. I gave him the order, he spoke to the two officers for a minute, and then asked the judge for a continuance of twenty-four hours. This was granted, and I was led back to the bedbugs in the dark cell. The next day, when my case was called, the lawyer stood up and started talking. “Sit down!” roared the judge. He obeyed.