October 1886
The trial resumes tomorrow. Judge Gary will give the guilty men a chance to plead their case. He’d better be prepared for a long time of listening. Al Parsons’s talk will last eight hours. He let me read it yesterday. It is a brilliant argument for social justice. It will have no effect on the Judge or most of the Chicago journalists. However, there will be reporters here from around the world. They’ll quote it at great length. I’m sure it will become a classic of labor rhetoric. How successful he would have been if he had chosen electoral politics!
Al is ecstatic. It is for this moment, he tells me, that he has waited all his life. It makes everything worth the effort and suffering. He will die happy after tomorrow.
He won’t die immediately. Bill Black has a powerful brief for an appeal. I read it yesterday in the General’s office. The money people will try to bribe the appellate judges to refuse to hear the appeal and to execute these criminals immediately so as to send a message to Anarchists all over the world. The judges will reject the appeal eventually. However, they are much more concerned about appearances than Judge Gary. The men in the jail will have at least another year of life. Anything could happen in a year. We might obtain a positive response to a clemency petition for all of them. I am not terribly hopeful, but more hopeful than I was during the summer.
Timmy Hardiman works at the General’s office on the weekends, hardly believing that his work is deemed essential to the smooth functioning of the office. The General tells me confidentially, “That lad is a lot better law clerk than you were at his age.”
“That’s not necessarily a compliment to him.”
Josie claims, not seriously, that Timmy is more in love with the law office than he is with her. She is terribly proud of having picked him out of the crowd.
“Don’t you dare tell her any different!” Nora warns me with a smile, knowing full well that I won’t.
There was a Catholic charity ball last night for our own upper crust. My parents insist that it was much nicer than the “Protestant balls” as they call them, though they are always invited. “Them folks don’t know how to have any fun,” my mother insists. “They’re sober and somber and serious all the time.”
“Like your son,” my wife says mischievously.
They all laugh, as they always do when the subject is my seriousness.
The General rides up on his white charger in my defense.
“Ned is the funniest man in this room if you read what he writes carefully. It’s the straight face which confuses people.”
I hope he’s right.
Nora’s pregnancy is not quite obvious yet. She was easily the most beautiful woman at the ball.
The Catholics at the party are of mixed minds about the Anarchists. Most of them congratulate me on my writing. Some of them buy the opinion of their betters that Anarchy by itself is a crime and the defendants must be executed to protect the civility of our city. Others say that the trial has been a damned disgrace and that Judge Gary will give our city a bad name all over the world.
A lawyer comments, “We’ll have to stage another fire to win respect back”
I remember that earlier in the day an arrogant fop of an English journalist complains to me about the “uncivilized and repulsive style of American justice.” I tell him that I covered the judicial murder of the Maamtrasna defendants four years ago and continue to be astonished at how the English lose all their storied sense of the sacredness of law when they cross the Irish sea.
I don’t tell the guests at the ball that conversation because it is the lead for my story in tomorrow’s Daily News.
November 1888
There was a festive atmosphere in the courtroom today. Everyone was greeting their old friends from summer days. Judge Gary had three empty-headed, giggling young women on the bench with him. The defendants were talking to their desperately hoping wives and sweethearts. The foreign press and the American reporters were chatting amiably. Captains Bonfield and Schaack are strutting around in their dress uniforms, looking much like generals in the Union Army.
I stand in a corner of the courtroom by myself, in my usual pose of forlorn cynicism. I suspect that I will last on the job until after the execution of the defendants or, please God, decrees of clemency for them. Then the powers at the Daily News will decide that they’ve had quite enough of me.
I will probably rejoice in that fate. I can put aside my courtroom pose, if by then it hasn’t become part of my character.
Nora assures me that she will not tolerate that.
Louis Lingg is the first of the defendants to speak. He is nothing if not uncompromising. His raw defiance electrifies the courtroom. He has told me that he did not make the Haymarket bomb but he has made bombs. I wonder if perhaps the prosecution might not have a case against him that they were too inept to make. I noted that he wore the gold cuff links which Elise had given him.
COURT OF JUSTICE! WITH THE same irony with which you have regarded my efforts to win, in this, “free land of America,” a livelihood such as humankind is worthy to enjoy, do you now, after condemning me to death, concede me the liberty of making a final speech.
I accept your concession; but it is only for the purpose of exposing the injustice, the calumnies, and the outrages which have been heaped upon me.
You have accused me of murder, and convicted me: what proof have you brought that I am guilty?
In the first place, you have brought this fellow Seliger to testify against me. Him I have helped to make bombs, and you have further proven that with the assistance of another, I took those bombs to No. 58 Clybourn Avenue, but what you have not proven—even with the assistance of your bought “squealer,” Seliger, who would appear to have acted such a prominent part in the affair—is that any of those bombs were taken to the Haymarket.
A couple of chemists also have been brought here as specialists, yet they could only state that the metal of which the Haymarket bomb was made bore a certain resemblance to those bombs of mine, and your Mr. Ingham has vainly endeavored to deny that the bombs were quite different. He had to admit that there was a difference of a full half inch in their diameters, although he suppressed the fact that there was also a difference of a quarter of an inch in the thickness of the shell. This is the kind of evidence upon which you have convicted me.
It is not murder, however, of which you have convicted me. The judge has stated that much only this morning in his resumé of the case, and Grinnell has repeatedly asserted that we were being tried, not for murder, but for Anarchy, so that the condemnation is that I am an Anarchist!
You have charged me with despising “law and order.” What does your “law and order” amount to? Its representatives are the police, and they have thieves in their ranks. Here sits Captain Schaack. He has himself admitted to me that my hat and books have been stolen from him in his office—stolen by policemen. These are your defenders of property rights!
The detectives again, who arrested me, forced their way into my room like housebreakers, under false pretenses, giving the name of a carpenter, Lorenz, of Burlington Street. They have sworn that I was alone in my room, therein perjuring themselves. You have not subpoenaed this lady, Mrs. Klein, who was present, and could have sworn that the aforesaid detectives broke into my room under false pretenses, and that their testimonies are perjured
But let us go further. In Schaack we have a captain of the police, and he also has perjured himself. He has sworn that I admitted to him being present at the Monday night meeting, whereas I distinctly informed him that I was at a carpenters’ meeting at Zepf’s Hall. He has sworn again that I told him that I also learned to make bombs from Herr Most’s book. That also is a perjury.
Let us go still a step higher among these representatives of law and order. Grinnell and his associates have permitted perjury, and I say that they have done it knowingly. The proof has been adduced by my counsel, and with my own eyes I have seen Grinnell point out to Gilmer, eight days before he came upon the stand, the persons of the men whom he was to swear against.
While I, as I have stated above, believe in force for the sake of winning for myself and fellow workmen a livelihood such as men ought to have, Grinnell, on the other hand, through his police and other rogues, has suborned perjury in order to murder seven men, of whom I am one.
Grinnell had the pitiful courage here in the courtroom, where I could not defend myself, to call me a coward! The scoundrel! A fellow who has leagued himself with a parcel of base, hireling knaves, to bring me to the gallows. Why? For no earthly reason save a contemptible selfish desire to “rise in the world” to “make money.”
This wretch—who, by means of the perjuries of other wretches is going to murder seven men—is the fellow who calls me “coward”! And yet you blame me for despising such “defenders of the law”! Such unspeakable hypocrites!
The Judge himself was forced to admit that the State’s Attorney had not been able to connect me with the bomb throwing. The latter knows how to get around it, however. He charges me with being a “conspirator.” How does he prove it? Simply by declaring the International Working People’s Association to be a “conspiracy.” I was a member of that body, so he has the charge securely fastened on me. Excellent! Nothing is too difficult for the genius of a State’s Attorney!
It is hardly incumbent upon me to review the relations which I occupy to my companions in misfortune. I can say truly and openly that I am not as intimate with my fellow prisoners as I am with Captain Schaack.
The universal misery, the ravages of the capitalistic hyena have brought us together in our agitation, not as persons, but as workers in the same cause. Such is the “conspiracy” of which you have convicted me.
I protest against the conviction, against the decision of the court. I do not recognize your law, jumbled together as it is by the nobodies of bygone centuries, and I do not recognize the decision of the court. My own counsel have conclusively proven from the decisions of equally high courts that a new trial must be granted us. The State’s Attorney quotes three times as many decisions from perhaps still higher courts to prove the opposite, and I am convinced that if, in another trial, these decisions should be supported by twenty-one volumes, they will adduce one hundred in support of the contrary, if it is Anarchists who are to be tried. And not even under such a law—a law that a schoolboy must despise—not even by such methods have they been able to “legally” convict us.
They have suborned perjury to boot.
I tell you frankly and openly, I am for force. I have already told Captain Schaack, “If they use cannons against us, we shall use dynamite against them.”
I repeat that I am the enemy of the “order” of today, and I repeat that, with all my powers, so long as breath remains in me, I shall combat it. I declare again, frankly and openly, that I am in favor of using force. I have told Captain Schaack, and I stand by it, “If you cannonade us, we shall dynamite you.” You laugh! You think, “You’ll throw no more bombs;” but let me assure you I die happy on the gallows, so confident am I that the hundreds of thousands to whom I have spoken will remember my words. When you shall have hanged us, then—mark my words—they will do the bomb throwing! In this hope do I say to you: I despise you, I despise your order, your laws, your force-propped authority. Hang me for it!
As usual the General was correct: Louis Lingg was a warrior, more likely of the kind to be found in the Confederate Army. Or the Prussian.
A minority of the spectators in the courtroom applauded. Judge Gary pounded for order, temporarily ignoring the young women who shared the bench with him.
“We will see what we can do to oblige your request, Mr. Lingg,” he sneered.
The next defendant to speak was Adolph Fischer. Born in Bremen, he is a tall, strong man in his late twenties who has lived in Chicago for only three years. Like Parsons and Schwab he is a typographer. Like Spies he worked at the Arbeiter-Zeitung. He also edited a small weekly with George Engel called Der Anarchist, whose motto was “We hate authority.” He designed the original broadsheet for the Haymarket meeting, which urged the crowd to come armed. When Spies told him to eliminate it, he readily agreed. The prosecution had used the original broadsheet as evidence. Judge Gary had prevented the defense from arguing that the final version had no reference to arms. He is typical of all of the defendants except Lou Lingg in that he cannot understand why people think his violent rhetoric could cause violence. He spoke briefly and with a strong German accent, which did not help with those in the city who hated and feared all foreigners:
I protest against my being sentenced to death because I have committed no crime. I was tried for murder but I was convicted of Anarchy. I protest against being sentenced to death because I have not been found guilty of murder. However, if I am to die on account of being an Anarchist, on account of my love for liberty, fraternity and equality, I will not remonstrate.
THE CROWD WAS SOMEHOW DISAPPOINTED that he did not speak longer. The condemned men owed to the courtroom a longer period of entertainment.
Judge Gary adjourned the court for lunch and departed with his bevy of female attendants. I scribbled out the first few paragraphs of my story:
YOUNG ANARCHIST DEFIES JUDGE GARY
Like a Confederate officer facing a Union courtmartial which had already decided his fate, Louis Lingg, the youngest of the accused Anarchists, defied Judge Gary to hang him. The vigor of Lingg’s defiance stirred the Judge out of his sotto voce conversations with the bevy of young woman who routinely share the judicial bench with him.
Wearing the gold cuff links that his adoring young friend had given him, Lingg was attractive in his courage if not prudent in his expression.
CHIEF OF POLICE PEMBERTON, WHO is able to maintain only minimum control over his captains, stopped me on the way out of court.
“I think you ought to know, Ned, that Captain Schaack is so pleased with the outcome of this trial that he has suggested to me we create our own Anarchist groups.”
“What!”
“He wants detectives to form secret Anarchist organizations which will flood the city with propaganda. He says that will sustain public fear and enhance the power of the Police Department. He hinted that money would become available to finance such schemes.”
“Marshall Field and Cy McCormick?”
“Doubtless… I said I would not stand for that. He seemed to withdraw the suggestion. However, I suspect that he will proceed regardless of what I say.”
“Unless someone in the press writes about it?”
“That would at least postpone the realization of his schemes.”
“I understand, Chief”
“Mind you, don’t quote me.”
I smiled.
“Certainly not.”
Another headline took shape in my head:
SCHAACK WANTS POLICE TO CONTINUE ANARCHY
When I was retired from the Daily News in a year or so, who would public officials confide their secrets to? Well, that was their problem. It was time for me to begin thinking about a respectable career.
In the afternoon Engel and Fischer spoke, both in strong Germanic accents. Despite the consistency of their Anarchist theories and the logic of their argumentation, they did little either for Anarchy or their own cases. They lacked the passion of Lingg and the charm of Gus Spies. Tomorrow we will hear from Al Parsons, sounding perhaps like a cowboy as he speaks in his nasal Texas twang.
Elise rushed up to me as I was leaving the court.
“Was he not splendid today, Mr. Fitzpatrick? Did he not speak with courage and conviction?”
“Like a splendid young warrior, Elise.”
“I am so proud of him. Did you see my cuff links?”
“I did, Elise. They made his defiance all the more elegant.”
“Ja, I am very proud!”
I recounted for Nora the events of the day.
“We must protect that young woman, Ned.”
“I have been thinking the same thing.”
“If Lucy Parsons and her friends make her part of their group, they will control her life as long as she lives.”
My Nora didn’t miss much. She did read the Chicago Daily News every day.
“They will indeed.”
“One could not object to that so long as that’s what Elise wants.”
“Elise is only a year or two older than our Josie. She has no idea what she wants.”
Nora chuckled.
“Josie thinks she knows what she wants, though what she thinks changes every week. If I understand you correctly this Lingg person wants her to escape from the world of the explosion and the trial. He has a place of refuge for her in Iowa?”
“It would seem so.”
“Do you know where?”
“Approximately. I can find the exact names and place easily enough.”
“Then you should find out if those people are appropriate for Elise, establish contact with them, and inform them when it’s time for her to join them.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She paid no attention to my irony.
“When the time comes, immediately after the execution I presume, we will put her on the train to Iowa and a new life.”
“We?”
“Of course. Josie and I with perhaps your assistance”
“I will try my best to assist you.”
“Young Myles here”—she patted her swelling belly—“will have joined us by then. Annie or your mother can watch him for a couple of hours. We should have no trouble putting Elise on the train. However, we should meet her several times between now and then to reassure her that she can trust us.”
“That would be wise.”
“We should put her on the train immediately after the execution, should we not?”
“I think so. That’s what Lingg apparently expects us to do. He wants to die without having her on his conscience. If she becomes part of the funeral ceremonies, she might find it impossible to leave Chicago.”
“If she is not an Anarchist, she must leave immediately then.”
“She’s not an Anarchist, Nora. She is a very young woman smitten by love for a gallant and handsome young warrior.”
“Poor thing,” my Nora said, dabbing at her eyes.
We were both silent for a moment.
“Ned…”
“Yes?”
“We must stay in touch with her once she is in Iowa, must we not?”
I had not thought of that detail.
“Certainly.”
She sighed.
“Poor things.”
She wept in my arms. I wished I could weep with her.
October 8
George Engel is the oldest of the defendants, a man with hair turning white, probably in his middle fifties. His white-haired wife, hunched over as if burdened with care and worry, listened nervously as he spoke in heavily accented German. He is a toy store owner who was at home playing cards when the bomb went off. I think of him as an aging elf who might work in Santa’s workshop except that he rarely smiles as Santa’s elves are supposed to smile. There is not a shred of evidence which connects him to the explosion, other than that with Fischer he is coeditor of Der Anarchist.
This is the first occasion of my standing before an American court, and on this occasion it is murder of which I am accused. And for what reasons do I stand here? For what reasons am I accused of murder? The same that caused me to leave Germany—the poverty, the misery of the working classes.
And here, too, in this “free republic,” in the richest country of the world, there are numerous proletarians for whom no table is set; who, as outcasts of society, stray joylessly through life. I have seen human beings gather their daily food from the garbage heaps of the streets, to quiet therewith their gnawing hunger.
I have read of occurrences in the daily papers which prove to me that here, too, in this great “free land,” people are doomed to die of starvation. This brought me to reflection, and to the question: What are the peculiar causes that could bring about such a condition of society? I then began to give our political institutions more attention than formerly. My discoveries brought to me the knowledge that the same society evils exist here that exist in Germany. This is the explanation of what induced me to study the social question, to become a socialist. And I proceeded with all the means at my command to make myself familiar with the new doctrine.
When, in 1878, I came here from Philadelphia, I strove to better my condition, believing it would be less difficult to establish a means of livelihood here than in Philadelphia, where I had tried in vain to make a living. But here, too, I found myself disappointed. I began to understand that it made no difference to the proletarian, whether he lived in New York, Philadelphia, or Chicago.
In the factory where I worked I became acquainted with a man who pointed out to me the causes that brought about the difficult and fruitless battles of the workingmen for the means of existence. He explained to me, by the logic of scientific socialism, how mistaken I was in believing that I could make an independent living by the toil of my hands, so long as machinery, raw material, etc., were guaranteed to the capitalists as private property by the State.
I took part in politics with the earnestness of a good citizen; but I was soon to find that the teachings of a “free ballot box” are a myth, and that I had again been duped. I came to the opinion that as long as workingmen are economically enslaved they cannot be politically free. It became clear to me that the working classes would never bring about a form of society guaranteeing work, bread and a happy life by means of the ballot.
Before I had lost my faith in the ballot box, the following occurrences transpired, which proved to me that the politicians of this country were through and through corrupt. When, in the fourteenth ward, in which I lived and had the right to vote, the Social Democratic party had grown to such dimensions as to make it dangerous for the Republican and Democratic parties, the latter forthwith united and took a stand against the Social Democrats. This, of course, was natural for are not their interests identical? And as the Social Democrats nevertheless elected their candidates, they were beaten out of the fruits of their victory by the corrupt schemes of the old political parties. The ballot box was stolen and the votes so “corrected” that it became possible for the opposition to proclaim their candidates elected. The workingmen sought to obtain justice through the courts, but it was all in vain. The trial cost them fifteen hundred dollars, but their rights they never obtained.
Soon enough I found that political corruption had burrowed through the ranks of the Social Democrats. I left this party and joined the International Working People’s Association, that was just being organized. The members of that body have the firm conviction that the workingman can free himself from the tyranny of capitalism only through force—just as all advances of which history speaks have been brought about through force alone. We see from the history of this country that the first colonists won their liberty only through force; that through force slavery was abolished, and just as the man who agitated against slavery in this country had to ascend to the gallows, so also must we. He who speaks for the workingman today must hang.…
The State’s Attorney said here that “Anarchy” was “on trial.”
Anarchism and socialism are as much alike, in my opinion, as one egg is to another. They differ only in their tactics. The Anarchists have abandoned the way of liberating humanity which socialists would take to accomplish this. I say: Believe no more in the ballot, and use all other means at your command. Because we have done so we stand arraigned here today—because we have pointed out to the people the proper way. The Anarchists are being hunted and persecuted for this in every clime, but in the face of it all anarchism is gaining more and more adherents, and if you cut off our opportunities of open agitation, then will all the work be done secretly. If the State’s Attorney thinks he can root out socialism by hanging seven of our men and condemning the other to fifteen years’ servitude, he is laboring under the wrong impression.…
When hundreds of workingmen have been destroyed in mines in consequence of faulty preparations, for the repairing of which the owners were too stingy, the capitalistic papers have scarcely noticed it. See with what satisfaction and cruelty they make their report, when here and there workingmen have been fired upon, while striking for a few cents’ increase in their wages, that they might earn only a scanty subsistence.
Can anyone feel any respect for a government that accords rights only to the privileged classes, and none to the workers? We have seen but recently how the coal-barons combined to form a conspiracy to raise the price of coal, while at the same time reducing the already low wages of their men. Are they accused of conspiracy on that account? But when workingmen dare ask an increase in their wages, the militia and the police are sent out to shoot them down.
For such a government as this I can feel no respect, and I will combat them despite their power, despite their police, despite their spies.
I hate and combat, not the individual capitalist, but the system that gives him those privileges. My greatest wish is that workingmen may recognize who are their friends and who are their enemies.
As to my conviction, brought about as it was through capitalistic influence, I have not a word to say.
THE IMPACT OF THIS CALM, logical argument was lost in the courtroom because of Engel’s thick accent and hubbub of the crowd. I was furious. This man is making the final statement of his life. The least they could do would be generous enough listen to his anguish.
Then Gus Spies rose to speak. He smiled briefly at his wife and began in his mild reasonable voice, a speech which was also mild and reasonable, if you didn’t listen too closely to what he was saying.
ANARCHISM DOES NOT MEAN BLOODSHED; does not mean robbery, arson, etc. These monstrosities are, on the contrary, the characteristic features of capitalism. Anarchism means peace and tranquility to all. Anarchism, or socialism, means the reorganization of society upon scientific principles and the abolition of causes which produce vice and crime. Capitalism first produces these social diseases and then seeks to cure them by punishment.…
Now, if we cannot be directly implicated with this affair, connected with the throwing of the bomb, where is the law that says “that these men shall be picked out to suffer”? Show me that law if you have it. If the position of this court is correct, then half of this city—half of the population of this city ought to be hanged, because they are responsible the same as we are for that act on May 4. And if not half the population of Chicago is hanged, then show me the law that says “eight men shall be picked out and hanged as scapegoats!” You have no such law. Your decision, your verdict, our conviction is nothing but an arbitrary will of this lawless court.
It is true there is no precedent in jurisprudence in this case. It is true we have called upon the people to arm themselves. It is true that we have told them time and again that the great day of change was coming. It was not our desire to have bloodshed. We are not beasts. We would not be socialists if we were beasts. It is because of our sensitiveness that we have gone into this movement for the emancipation of the oppressed and suffering. …
This seems to be the ground upon which the verdict is to be sustained. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce the people under absolute despotism, it is their right, their duty, to throw off such government and provide new guards for their future safety.
This is a quotation from the Declaration of Independence. Have we broken any laws by showing to the people how these abuses, that have occurred for the last twenty years, are invariably pursuing one object, viz: to establish an oligarchy in this country as strong and powerful and monstrous as never before has existed in any country?
I can well understand why that man Grinnell did not urge upon the grand jury to charge us with treason. I can well understand it. You cannot try and convict a man for treason who has upheld the Constitution against those who try to trample it under their feet. It would not have been as easy a job to do that, Mr. Grinnell, as to charge “these men” with murder.
Now, these are my ideas. They constitute a part of myself. I cannot divest myself of them, nor would I, if I could. And if you think that you can crush out these ideas that are gaining ground more and more every day, if you think you can crush them out by sending us to the gallows—if you would once more have people to suffer the penalty of death because they have dared to tell the truth—and I defy you to show us where we have told a lie—I say, if death is the penalty for proclaiming the truth, then I will proudly and defiantly pay the costly price! Call your hangman. Truth crucified in Socrates, in Christ, in Giordano Bruno, in Hus, in Galileo, still lives—they and others whose number is legion have preceded us on this path. We are ready to follow!
MOST OF THE CROWD LISTENED, though not Judge Gary who was busy entertaining his ever-present bevy of womanly admirers. Spies’s English was presentable and his voice calm and reasoned. The logic of all the arguments is similar. We break no laws. We are appalled by the condition of workers. We have banded together to improve their lot. Eventually we will drive you out of power. We will die if we must for our cause. The mix of unruffled tone, pleas of innocence, threats of revolution, and willingness for martyrdom was not quite as logical as it seemed. However it did not much matter. The Anarchists were delivering their message to the world and for posterity. The whole trial was about these statements even if few in the court paid much attention.
October 9
Parsons spoke today for four hours. Judge Gary would not permit him a respite, so Al went on in a voice that was increasingly forced and tired. At first the courtroom crowd listened closely. He was a brilliant orator. They were impressed with the clarity and sense of his description of American society. Then they began to lose attention and drift away. Even the silly women on the bench made their excuses to the Judge and slipped away.
Most of the local press departed too. They had all the quotes they needed. The foreigners stayed to listen because they knew this oration was an important historical event. They wanted to be able to say that they had been there when Albert Parsons delivered his eight-hour epitaph.
My own feeling was that he might have been much more effective in four hours or even two. He was Hamlet delaying the end of the drama. On the other hand he was willing to pay the price of his own death to earn the stage. He was entitled to as much time as he wanted.
October 10, 1886.
The statements of the defendants ended this afternoon. Finally Judge Gary’s moment in history came, the scene he had been anticipating since the beginning of the trial. The canoodling young women were dismissed from the bench
He sorted the papers on his desk, put on his glasses, brushed back his hair with an elegant gesture, and donned his most solemn face.
He sentenced poor Oscar Nebbe, against whom even Julie Grinnell had found no evidence, to twentyfive years in prison and ordered his immediate removal to the state prison in Joliet. Then adjusting his glasses again and brushing back his hair again, he sentenced the others.
“I hereby order and decree that each of the other defendants, between the hours of ten o’clock in the forenoon and two o’clock in the afternoon on the third day of December next, in the manner provided by the statute of this State, be hung by his neck until he is dead. May God have mercy on your souls, even as humans may not and cannot.”
No one in the court was surprised. The Judge’s moment of glory had become an anticlimax. Nina Spies cried out in horror. Belated cheers and applause swept the courtroom.
The drama was not over, only the second act. But for the moment it seemed like it was over.
My lead was obvious and perhaps cheap:
DEATH BEFORE CHRISTMAS!