 And now, a tale well-calculated to keep you in. Suspense. Two brothers play a deadly game. In a moment, act one of murder is a matter of opinion, starring Phil Meadier and William Lipton, based on a story by Jules Archer, and written especially for suspense by Ronald Dawson. The lively crowd, today agrees, those who think young say Pepsi, please. They pick the right one, the modern light one. Now it's Pepsi for those who think young. So go ahead and pick the drink that lets you drink, young as you think. Yes, get the right one, the modern light one. Now it's Pepsi for those who think young. It wasn't surprising that my younger brother Brian and I disagreed so violently on the question of capital punishment. We chose opposite sides on everything as a matter of habit. Ever since dad had sent him to join me at the Tulane College of Law, we'd argued about murder. Murder is a matter of opinion, Frank, and that's all. Just a matter of opinion. I can't go along with you, Brian. The law not only distinctly defines murder, but furthermore, the law is designed to protect the innocent. I can point out quite a few cases where an innocent man was condemned to death. No, sir. I just happened to believe the law is right. Well, you're wrong. Look, if you're so darn sure that the law can be wrong, prove it. All right, I will. How? Each year, Tulane stages a mock trial, right? Of course. The moot court board. Right. Now they secretly prepare a mock crime on the campus and try to catch us by surprise to give us some realistic experience in criminal law procedure, right? Right. Okay. This year, why don't we spring a surprise on the board? Just you and I will stage our own private murder case. Brian, why don't you do something about that coffee, yours? It's really beginning to worry me. You cough all night long. I'll take care of it. I'll see a doctor one of these days. Please do. Okay, let's get back to our mock murder. I'll play the corpse and you'll be the murderer, but after we stage the killing, I'll undertake your defense at the trial. What will you prove? I'll prove to you and to the student jury that even though every fact points to you as guilty of first-degree murder, even to the point of witnesses who saw you kill me, you can still be absolutely innocent. You wouldn't use any self-defense gag. No insanity plea, accidental manslaughter? No, a straight, deliberate, premeditated killing. Well, kid, it's a nice stunt if you can do it. It's a deal. Let's work out the details. To give us a little more incentive, I bet Brian 100 bucks that he couldn't win. And we got busy and worked out the details. We rehearsed and rehearsed until we were letter perfect. And then we began to act out the drama for the benefit of the student body. We were in the dormitory and it was crowded. And by what perverted logic, Frank, do you contend that a mother who mercifully puts her idiot child out of its misery is a murderer? No one has the right to take another's life. Don't quote the Bible to me. Think for yourself. Look, if you did a little more reading of the Bible and a little less boasting about what you know of the law... Boasting. You're the one who's always boasting. You're the one who's never wrong. Oh, shut up. Will you, Brian? You're just a punk kid. A punk kid, am I? I'll show you who's a kid or not. Hey, come on, you. Just cut it out. Mind your own business. Yeah, Tom, you keep out of this. I'm not going to let this little louse get away with all this nonsense of his. I'll get you for that. The fight achieved our purpose. We had planted the idea that Brian and I run the outs. To make it still more emphatic, we made it a point not to speak to each other for several days. It was a pretty good act. Tom Pence and a mutual friend stopped in to see me. Frank, I realize I have no right to say what I have in mind. Well, then don't. I have to. As an old friend, Frank, I just can't understand what's come over you and Brian. Oh, he's impossible. Do you know that young punk has a nerve to question father's decisions? Can you imagine baby Brian questioning the decisions of one of the most learned judges in the country? Well, he's got an inquiring mind. He wants to explore the law. An inquiring mind, my eye. He's got a colossal conceit. And one of these days, I'll knock it out of him. Poor Tom Pence and try to make peace between us. But Brian and I remained irreconcilable. And then came our next move. Over the weekend, Brian discovered that his watch was missing. He speculated loudly and bitterly and pointed out how it might have disappeared. I left the dormitory slamming the door behind me. Later that day, I was sitting with Tom Pence and a few of the boys at the campus cafeteria. Brian wandered in as per schedule, signaling his entrance with that racking cough of his. Oh, gentlemen. Just gaze at what my poor, deluded father expects Tulane to transform into a lawyer. All right, where is it? Where's what? You know, darn well, what? My watch. Now, how should I know where your watch is? I want it back, and I want it back now. Are you implying that I stole your lousy watch? I'm implying nothing. I'm saying you stole it. Hey, look, fellas, if you're going to start another fight, I'm getting out of here. I don't want to... You stay right where you are, Tom. I want to witness that just what that young punk is saying. For the last time, I want my watch. Look, if you weren't such a weak sister, I'd knock you on your ear. Why, you... Brian, don't. Get out of the way, Tom. Now, you, Mr. Frank Jackson, are going to give me back my watch. I haven't got it, you asses. Okay, then, you dirty lying thief. Hey, stop it, you guys. Come on, Frank. Brian, cut it out. You'll kill each other. Get you for this. Dear brother, you'll pay for this, baby Brian. Well, that was the finish of the build-up. And it worked out exactly as Brian and I had planned. The campus buzzed with gossip about the feuding Jackson brothers. There was even a rumor current that the dean was going to send for both of us. Brian and I had started that rumor. That night, there was an affair on the campus, which neither of us attended. I slipped over to my study, and a few minutes later, Brian came in. Hi there, public enemy number one. Hi, big boy. Hey, Brian, I wish you'd take care of that cough. Yeah, I will soon. Well, my jaw is still sore, you bum. You didn't have to hit me that hard. Sorry, Frank. I tried to pull my punch, but I guess I'm not very good at that sort of thing. You sure no one saw you coming here? Oh, no, no. Campus is deserted. Oh, okay. Well, now we're about set for the final act. The payoff takes place in the bookstore, right? Right. Okay, now look at this. Oh, good. You got the gun. Yep, a .32 loaded with blanks. I borrowed it from the Army. They'll never miss it. Fine. And I've got a paper cup filled with ketchup. I'll stick it under my shirt. And when I fire, you'll clasp your hand to your heart and squeeze out the red blood. And then you lie on the floor while I make me escape. Right. And I'll lie on the floor for at least five minutes to give you a chance to get away. Don't forget, you're to call the dean and tell him about the hoax and then have him set up the mock trial. Everything looks set. Tomorrow, then. The bookstore at 12.15. Right. I'll come in and start a fight and sell it to you and you'll do the rest, okay? Uh-oh. One more thing. All those plans we worked out on paper, you're sure you threw them all out. Absolutely. I burned them. There'll be no clues around to show that the whole thing's a hoax until after it happens. This is one time that I'll win, Frank. Everything went smoothly. Brian entered the bookstore at 12.15, mingling with the noonday browsers. He was examining a book off one of the shelves when I entered. All right, you dirty little swine. Wait a minute, Frank. You couldn't stop telling everyone that I'm a thief, could you? Frank, put away that gun. Not until I use it on you. Brian clapped his hand to his heart. The cats have trickled out over his shirt on a convincing red stain. With a slight groan, my brother slumped to the floor on his face. Oh, it was a beautiful job. Two girls screamed and one student fainted. Everyone in the bookshops had transfixed in horror. I wheeled and ran out, springing back to my study. And then, chuckling to myself, I phoned the dean. He wasn't in, so I left word that I called and asked if he'd call me back. I relaxed in my bed, waiting for the dean to call. I began to speculate over Brian's possible defense pleas on my behalf of the trial. He agreed to every detail of the crime as we enacted it. How could he convince a jury of law students that it was anything but first-degree murder? I hated to see Brian make an ass of himself publicly, but it was his idea. Dear God, Frank. What's wrong, Tom? You're as white as a sheet. What did you do it for? How could you do such a terrible thing? I just killed a little stinker because he had a coming to him, that's all. You killed your own brother and you're laughing at it? He looked so funny lying there. But your own brother! What difference does it make? Just a minute, Tom. That must be the dean. I'm expecting his call. Hello? Jackson? Speaking. This is the dean. Yes, sir? Come to my office immediately. Yes, sir. I beat it, Tom. That was the dean. He wants me to report to his office immediately. But, Frank, look. You're in a lot of trouble. Perhaps if you plead insanity. Insanity, my foot. I planned it. Yes, sir. It was premeditated murder. Happily, I entered the dean's office. To my surprise, there was a police captain with him. Well, I thought in rye amusement, Brian and I had forgotten that angle of it. We'd surprised the police, too. And from the dark look on the beefy face, I gathered that the police department took a dim view of the stunt. Oh, Jackson, come in. Captain, this is Frank Jackson. He's your man. You're Frank Jackson? Yes, sir. You're under arrest. Looks like it was a pretty successful murder. What? My brother's not really dead, dean. You don't think so? No, sir. You see, dean, instead of waiting for the moot court to stage a mock crime, Brian and I decided to put on one of our own. We thought you wouldn't mind because, well, there's a very subtle legal point involved. What are you talking about? Well, if you'll allow us to hold a mock trial, I think the case would be extremely interesting to the student body. My brother wants to undertake my defense to prove that what is apparently a first-degree murder is really nothing of the sort. Oh, true, Lord. What? Now, would you cooperate, sir, by holding a trial and calling all the witnesses who were in the bookstore? A trial will be held all right, and all the witnesses in the bookstore will be called to testify against you. Only it won't be a mock trial at all, but a real one in criminal court. What? Frank Jackson, I arrest you for the murder of your brother, Brian. It's OK, Captain. You can stop kidding now. I know you're trying to fool me the way we fooled you. Do you mean to say that you don't think you killed your brother? Of course not. The bullets were blanks. Were they? Pretty deadly blanks, Jackson. Deadly enough to kill your brother five seconds after you fired them. Let's go. It was a nightmare. I'd wake up, I told myself, and Brian would be sleeping beside me in the dormitory. Then I forced myself to look up, and the barred window was still there. An uncontrollable chill shook me. This was a jail, and I was not dreaming. I was on trial for my life. The dean phoned my father, who came rushing to my aid. He was led into my cell. Frank, Frank! Dad, this is awful for you. Brian gone, and me here... Son, son, we've got to fight. I guess you're right, Dad. Did you get me a lawyer? Yes, the best lawyer in the state, Peter J. Cheney. He'll be here shortly. Dad, I just can't believe it. It's too incredible. You and Brian were so close. Frank, how did it happen? I don't know. Those bullets were blanks. I tested them the day I got them. There can be only one answer. Someone replaced the blanks, and you're gone with real bullets. But who? Why? No one knew about our plan to stage a mock crime, but Brian and me? I didn't even have any real bullets in my possession. There wasn't even the possibility of a mistake. Well, Brian certainly never would have done it. He knew full well the gun was going to be fired at him. Then who? Why? I just can't figure it, Dad. It's driving me mad. Think hard, Frank. Isn't there anybody, one single person, who knew about or suspected the hoax? No, there isn't. Not a living soul can testify that Brian and I were playing a game. The only voice that could prove it belongs to my dead brother. And on the other hand, everyone on campus can testify that we had bitter quarrels. None of them knows that the quarrels were faked, and at least 12 witnesses saw me shoot my own brother down. Saw me murder Brian in cold blood. Frank, this is a clear-cut case of first-degree murder. In one of its worst forms. Fracturicide. I haven't a scrap of evidence with which to defend you. In fact, any story I might present would be ridiculed. Well, what can we do, Mr. Cheney? You'll have to plead insanity. I won't. I can't. Judge Jackson, you know we couldn't win your son's acquittal on the strength of the boy's absolutely unsupported story. Well, I must say... But it is true, I tell you. I believe you. Otherwise I wouldn't defend you. But we don't even have an explanation of why there were real bullets in that gun. Dear God, I wish I knew. Son, a jury might credit a plea of insanity. A nervous breakdown resulting from overwork. With good character witnesses for you, you might have a chance. Dad, what should I do? Frank, I have no right to dissuade you from choosing the legal course which has the best chance of saving your life. But I can only say that I believe in telling the truth. In fact, it's all you can do if you honestly believe in the justice of the law and trust it. I do, Dad. I do. I'll stick to the truth. I don't like it, Frank. That's the way it has to be. Frank, I'm a criminal lawyer and I know juries. And I tell you, my boy, there isn't any jury in the world that would swallow your story. How right. How bitterly right Mr. Cheney was. No jury would swallow my story. The parade of witnesses called by the state was crushingly incriminating. And then before I realized it, Tom Penson was sworn in on the stand to testify against me. Now, Mr. Penson, you were acquainted with the late Brian Jackson. I was. And you know the defendant. Yes, sir. Would you say that his brothers, they were very close and fond of each other? Well, they were, at least until a little over a month ago. You mean that something came between them? Well, I suppose so. But I don't know what. Very well. Now, Mr. Penson, were you present in the cafeteria on the afternoon of December 10th? Yes, sir. I was having a cup of coffee with the defendant Frank Jackson. What happened? Brian came in and Frank insulted him. What do you mean he insulted him? Well, Frank said, take a look at what my father expects Tulane to transform into a lawyer. He meant, of course, his brother Brian? Yes, sir. And he said it's a loud that everyone in the cafeteria must have heard it. I see. Then what happened? Brian accused Frank of stealing his watch. Was that the end of their quarrel? No. Frank denied that he had the watch and Brian struck him. You saw that blow struck? I did. Yes, sir. Mr. Penson, were you present when the defendant fired the shots that killed his brother? I was. Where did that take place? In the bookshop. What were your reactions? I could hardly believe my eyes. I kept hoping it was some kind of a joke. Go on. I rushed over to Frank's room. Did you say anything to him? I did. I asked him why he did it and how he could have done such a terrible thing. What did he say? He said, I killed a little stinker because he had it coming to him. Every word spoken by every witness condemned me. To them, I was a murderer. As the testimony was piling up the evidence against me, I kept remembering the last serious thing Brian said to me. And that I'll win, Frank. Ironically enough, it was beginning to look as if this time Brian would win. Listening to all the testimony, I began to doubt my own sanity. My story began to sound foolish and incredible to my own ears. But it was all I had to offer in my own defense. No proof. No witnesses. The entire courtroom I knew was convinced of my guilt beyond the shadow of a doubt. Suddenly, I was aware that the prosecutor was questioning me. I repeat, what happened to the blank bullets you claimed you had? I told you before, I don't know. Again, I ask you, if all of this was just a hoax, as you stated, and if the whole thing was kept an absolute secret by you and the deceased, who could have known and who could have changed those bullets? I don't know. I don't know. There are too many things you don't know, Mr. Jackson. I would say that you don't even know how to lie. I'm not lying. It's the truth. It's the truth to help me God. I didn't kill my brother. I didn't kill him. The curious form of mass hypnotism, I almost began to share the belief that I was guilty. Perhaps I really had been temporarily insane. Perhaps I had willfully deliberately murdered Brian in cold blood. My brain was whirling and my hands were clammy when I rose to face the jury. They'd been out for less than an hour. I couldn't believe that I was going to listen to words that would legally terminate my life. The jury found me guilty as charged. I screamed, No, that can't be. It's all a mistake. An awful mistake. My story is true. Every word of it. This is murder. I was sentenced to die on the 4th of March. That gave me some time to think about the amazing thing, the unbelievable thing that had happened to me, some time to explore my soul and memory. I was innocent and I had told the truth. But Brian was dead and I was found guilty of his murder and only he could have proved my innocence. His words came back to me a hundred times a day. This is one time I'll win, Frank. I began to remember the arguments Brian and I had on capital punishment and murder and the prophetic irony of his contention that under our laws an innocent man could be convicted of murder and be legally murdered by the state. Three days after my sentence had been pronounced, the door of myself was unlocked. The prison guard came in and told me the warden wanted to see me. I lurched along beside the guard down the long corridor and through a panel door. Inside the room were my father, Mr. Cheney and another man I didn't recognize. The warden spoke first. Jackson, this is Mr. Bickston, a notary public. He's come here with an amazing story that I want him to tell you in front of your father and your lawyer. All right, Mr. Bickston? Well, you see, three days before your brother was... before he died, he came to me and wrote out a statement which he made me witness without reading. It was sealed in an envelope in my presence and I kept it in my safe. Please go on. Your brother said you were going to be tried for a crime and that if you were convicted, I was to hand this envelope to the warden three days after your sentence. I have acted upon his instructions. The warden has read the letter and wants me to give it to you. Here it is. To whom it may concern. This is an open letter to my brother, Frank, who will probably need it. Dear Frank, I hope you will forgive me for what I did to you. It was I, Brian Jackson, who replaced the blacks in your gun with real bullets. If you recall, you kept urging me to see a doctor because of my cough. I did see a doctor, but never told you or dad that he had given me only a year to live at most. I couldn't stand a lingering death like that, Frank, so from the very beginning when we planned the hoax, I had suicide in mind. That is what it practically was. But I wanted to prove to you for once that you were wrong. I wanted to show you that you, a perfectly innocent man, could be convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to death under our system of law. This letter will, of course, bring you your freedom. But if my hand had not risen from the grave, so to speak, the law would have hanged you. Now do you admit that murder, even the clearest murder, is purely a matter of opinion? Suspense. You've been listening to Murder as a Matter of Opinion, starring Phil Meeder and William Lipton, and Written for Suspense by Ronald Dawson, based on the story by Jules Archer. Suspense is produced and directed by Bruno Zorato Jr., music supervision by Ethel Huber, also featured in tonight's story, where Ronald lists as Tom Benson, Bernard Lenro as Judge Jackson, Maurice Tarplin as the prosecutor, Ivor Francis as Mr. Cheney, Bob Dryden as the captain, and Lawson Zerbe as the dean. Listen again next week, when we return with Sold to Satan, written by Joseph Cochran. Another tale well calculated to keep you in. Suspense. Expanded CBS News every hour on the hour weekdays presents the most complete network news coverage. This is the CBS Radio.