Speaker 1: His Christmas gift by Jacob A. Reese. The prisoner will stand,
droned out the clerk in the Court of General Sessions.
Filippo Portoghese, you are convicted of assault with intent to kill.
Have you anything to say why sentence should not be
passed upon you? A sallow man with a hopeless look
in his heavy eyes, rose slowly in his seat and
stood facing the judge. There was a pause in the
hum and bustle of the court as men turned to
watch the prisoner. He did not look like a man
who would take a neighbor's life, and yet so nearly
had he done so of set purpose. It had been
abundantly proved that his victim would carry the disfiguring scar
of the bullet to the end of his life, and
only by what seemed an almost miraculous chance, had escaped death.
The story, as told by witnesses and substantially uncontry addicted
was this Portoghese and Vito Amella, whom he shot, were
neighbors under the same roof. Amela kept the grocery on
the ground floor. Portoghese lived upstairs in the tenement. He
was a prosperous peaceful man with a family of bright children,
with whom he romped and played happily. When home from
his barber shop, The black hand fixed its evil eye
upon the family group and saw its chance. One day
a letter came demanding a thousand dollars. Portoghese put it
aside with the comment that this was New York, not Italy.
Other letters followed, threatening harm to his children. Portoghese paid
no attention, but his wife worried. One day, the baby,
little Vito, was missing, and in hysterics, she ran to
her husband's shop, crying that the black Hand had stolen
the child. The barber hurried home and sought high and low.
At last he came upon the child sitting on Amela's doorstep.
He had wandered away and brought up at the grocery.
Asked where he had been, The child pointed to the store.
Portoghese flew in and demanded to know what Amela was
doing with his boy. The grocer was in a bad
humor and swore at him. There was an altercation, and
Ammela attacked the barber with a broom, beating him and
driving him away from his door. Black with anger, portoghese
ran to his room and returned with a revolver. In
the fight that followed, he shot Amela through the head.
He was arrested and thrown into jail. In the hospital,
the grocer hovered between life and death for many weeks.
Portogheseli in the tombs, awaiting trial for more than a year,
believing still that he was the victim of a black
hand conspiracy. When at last the trial came up, his
savings were all gone, and of the once prosperous and
happy man only a shadow was left. He sat in
the court room and listened in moody silence to the
witnesses who told how he had unjustly suspected and nearly
murdered his friend. He was speedily convicted, and the day
of his sentence was fixed for Christmas Eve. It was
certain that it would go hard with him. The Italians
were too prone to shoot in stabs of the newspapers,
and the judges were showing no mercy. The witnesses had
told the truth, but there were some things they did
not know, and they did not get into the evidence.
The prisoner's wife was ill from grief and want their
savings of years gone to lawyer's fees. They were on
the verge of starvation. The children were hungry with the
bells ringing in the glad holiday, they were facing bitter
homelessness in the winter streets, for the rent was in arrears,
and the landlord would not wait, and Papa away now
for the second Christmas, and maybe for many yet to come.
Ten the lawyer and jury had said this was New York,
not Italy. In the tombs, the prisoners set it over
to himself bitterly. He had thought only of defending his own.
So now he stood, looking the judge and the jury
in the face, yet hardly seeing them. He saw only
the prison gates opening for him, and the gray walls
shutting him out from his wife and little ones. For
how many Christmases was it? One? Two, three? He fell
to counting them over mentally, and did not hear when
his lawyer whispered and nudged him with his elbow. The
clerk repeated his question, but he merely shook his head.
What should he have to say had he not said
it to these men? And they did not believe him?
About little Vito, who was long, and his wife, who
cried her eyes out because of the black hand letters.
He There was a step behind him, and a voice
he knew spoke. It was the voice of Ammela, his neighbor,
with whom he had used to be friends before before
that day. Please, your honor, let this man go. It
is Christmas and we should have no unkind thoughts. I
have none against Filippo here, and I ask you to
let him go. It grew very still in the courtroom
as he spoke and paused for an answer. Lawyers looked
up from their briefs in astonishment. The juryman in the
box leaned forward and regarded the convicted man and his
victim with rapt attention. Such a plea had not been
heard in that place before portoghese stood mute. The voice
sounded strange and far away to him. He felt a
hand upon his shoulder that was the hand of a friend,
and shifted his feet uncertainly, but made no response. The
gray haired judge regarded the two gravely, but kindly. Your
wish comes from a kind heart, he said. But this
man has been convicted. The law must be obeyed. There
is nothing in it that allows us to let a
guilty man go free. The jurymen whispered together, and one
of them arose your honor. He said, a higher law
than any made by man came into the world at Christmas.
That we love one another. These men would obey it.
Will you not let them? The jury pray is one man,
that you let mercy go before justice on this holy eve.
A smile lit up Judge O'Sullivan's face. Filippa Portoghese, he said,
you are a very fortunate man. The law bids me
send you to prison for ten years, and but for
miraculous chance, would have condemned you to death. But the
man you aimed for life pleads for you, and the
jury that convicted you begs that you go free. The
court remembers that you have suffered, and it knows the
plight of your family, upon whom the heaviest burden of
your punishment would fall. Go then to your home, and
to you, gentlemen, a happy holiday such as you have
given him and his This court stands adjourned. The voice
of the crier was lost in a storm of applause.
The jury rose to their feet and cheered Judge complainant
and defendant Portoghese, who had stood as one dazed, raised
eyes that brimmed with tears, to the bench and to
his old neighbor. He understood. At last, Amela threw his
arm around him and kissed him on both cheeks, his
disfigured face beaming with joy. One of the jurymen, a jew,
put his hand impulsively in his pocket, emptied it into
his hat, and passed the hat to his neighbor. All
the others followed his example. The court officer dropped in
half a dollar as he stuffed its contents into the
happy Italian's pocket. For little Vito, he said, and shook
his hand. Ah, said the foreman of the jury, looking
after the reunited friends, leaving the court roof arm in arm.
It is good to live in New York. A Merry
Christmas to you, judge, and of his Christmas Gift by
Jacob A. Reese