Theory of Slavery | Hamilton

IV

"So, the criminal is insane? Is that what you are trying to say?"

The hustle in the courtroom was terrible. I knew that the affair had aroused great interest, that everyone was burning with impatience for the trial to begin, but yet I had not imagined that it had aroused such burning, such intense interest in everyone, not only among Carolina, but all over the country. This became evident at the trial this day. Among the visitors were lawyers, plantors, and reporters. There was such a large number of reporters that at the end of the room, behind the platform, a special partition was hurriedly put up, behind which all these reporters were admitted, and they thought themselves lucky to have standing room there, for all chairs had been removed for the sake of space, and the crowd behind the partition stood throughout the case closely packed, shoulder to shoulder, clicking with their cameras and making a lot of noise. In the middle of the court, near the judges, was a table with the "material proofs." On it lay the fatal unloaded pistol; my shirt, with a blood-stained sleeve; my waistcoat, stained with blood in patches; a stolen key from a truck. To the right there was a cage with the perpetrator (that is, with me) and a seat for the defence (that is, for my father).

"Yes, your Honor," my father said, loudly and distinctly.

His words immediately caused a great deal of rumbling. He stood up gracefully. Simply, firmly, even with an air of perfect readiness, he answered the question:

"I have the misfortune to be a father of a homosexual, and you may be sure I know what I'm talking about."

The jury gasped. I leapt up, my handcuffs jingling. I was like a man who shuts his eyes and throws himself from the roof.

"Father!" I yelled desperately. "Stop! Be quiet!"

The accusation was unmistakable, though perhaps it was a surprise to himself. The courtroom was now filled with an irrepressible, almost frenzied hubbub. The judge began to ring the bell with all his might. I completely lost my temper.

"Slander! It's all slander!" I roared.

"Stop him, stop him!" cried the judge, utterly infuriated. The warden hit me with his stick.

And, of course, this brief episode did me no good with the jury or the public. My character was displayed, and it spoke for itself.

"John, enough!" father cried sternly. "Gentlemen of the jury, to see you prosecuting a mental patient," (he pointed in my direction) "is unseemly; I assure you. Look at him!"

All eyes were suddenly on me.

"And I must own he shocked me very much and shocked everyone. Gentlemen of the jury, have you heard of the cross-dressing affair?"

"I heard of it," interposed the judge. "I thought it was merely a rumor."

"Not in the slightest," father demonstrated a newspaper clipping to the jury. "You see, this young man, my son, allowed himself to go out in public wearing a dress..."

"You are destroying me! Father!" I almost whaled. I, of course, was pulled up again for the intemperance of my language.

"In public? Wearing a dress?" asked the judge.

"Exactly, your honor."

I can't describe the intensity feeling with which he looked at me. A deep sadness, sincere and complete, was manifest in his face. What was most surprising was that he looked as though he were guilty; as though I were the judge, and he was the criminal.

"It's only that he doesn't talk about that now, but, believe me, it was so. I have a photograph, too."

This provoked a burst of approving laughter in the audience. The judge's face changed.