Making another application for a writ of habeas corpus, which he knew would not avail us, he had the hearing set for ten o’clock in the morning. This alarmed the coppers and every one of them was at the courtroom when the case was called. Everybody was there but our attorney. The hearing was held up for fifteen minutes. During this fifteen minutes he was at the safety vault lifting the plant, while every detective on the case was waiting in court. He came in, nodded to us, apologized to the court, and went on with the case with the parcel of loot in his pocket. The writ was denied, of course. I told him to put the stuff away, and he did.

When I asked him about it later, he looked me straight in the eye and said: “Did you think I was damn fool enough to keep that stuff around me? Say, when court adjourned that day I went straight down to the foot of Powell Street and threw it in the bay.”

This didn’t look just right to me, but what could I do? I was only a poor, honest burglar in the hands of a highway lawyer. He got us a copy of the testimony given the grand jury, and from it I learned what had caused our arrest⁠—Spokane’s passion for gambling.