At the summer assizes in the expanding market town of London, Jim sat in the prisoner’s box, on trial for murder. Johannah sat the family as close as she could to him. It was a high-ceilinged room of heavy oak beams, in a primitive Baroque style, with the judge’s dais elevated above the courtroom—a physical confirmation of his supremacy. The room was full of curious onlookers and cozy with the body heat. She sat there in the front row with their seven sons and new infant daughter, Jenny. Young Billy Farrell, son of the deceased, was also there, now one of the family.
Johannah smiled a little nervously at Father Connolly. They were in God’s hands, he had assured them. Trust in God. Farrell’s friends, John Carroll and Martin McLaughlin, the short, silver, well-to-do farmer who had been at the scene of the fight, were in court. Johannah did not know McLaughlin, nor what to expect of him. James Keefe and Bob Whalen were there with smiles and nods of encouragement.
The Crown first put Carroll on the stand.
“Pat Farrell was only defending himself. Donnelly was fixing for that fight from the start.”
Johannah had expected this. After Carroll, Martin McLaughlin took his turn, his colours quickly becoming apparent.
“There had been some drinking and Farrell was a little drunk. Donnelly pretended to be, but I think he was pretty sober. I think he was planning the fight.”
Jim’s expression showed this was a lie.
Bob Whalen came to the stand for the defence. Judge Bennett was looking through his papers as Whalen offered his story.
“They’d both been drinking and both had it in for each other for years. Farrell wanted to go at it as much as Jim Donnelly. At the end, Jim was just defending himself. Farrell clubbed him and he was on the ground…”
The judge interrupted.
“Wait. Stop. You’re Robert Whalen. You accompanied the defendant in and wanted the reward.”
“That is so. But I didn’t get nothing. Fitzhenry said…”
“You’re not an indifferent witness, sir.”
Whalen, to his credit, pointed to Connolly and McLaughlin.
“You think these other jokers are, Your Honour?”
“You are disqualified. The jury will ignore Mr. Whalen’s comments.”
Bob Whalen was a key witness for the defence and they had just lost him. Maloney was reportedly sick in bed. John Hogan would have testified but he had driven Keefe with his crushed leg to the doctor and had not been a witness to the fight. So the final witness they would depend on was Father Connolly. The priest began in a magnanimous tone.
“Of course, we all knew about the land dispute between Farrell and Donnelly. I had talked to both men, together and separately, and urged them to make peace, and it did hold for almost three years and then…it ended so tragically.”
“Did either man express a desire for peace?”
“Farrell told me he wanted it to end and could live with having lost half his land if it meant peace.”
“And Jim Donnelly? What did he say about it?”
“There was no talking to Jim Donnelly. He wanted what he called ‘his land’ back and would hear of nothing else. I was so concerned that on the day of Maloney’s gathering, I had urged Donnelly to stay away. As we now all know, he should have taken my advice.”
Jim and Johannah sat frozen as they heard Father Connolly turn away from them and support the dead man. Johannah could not believe her ears.
“When Donnelly arrived, did you try to keep him away from Farrell?”
“We did everything we could. But Donnelly would not listen. Jim Donnelly was determined to fight that day,” Father Connolly asserted emphatically. “Neither man nor God could stop him.”
Finished, he left the witness chair. As he returned to his seat, he looked with pity first at Jim and then at Johannah.
The jury took less than an hour to reach a verdict. The judge had explained they could find Jim not guilty, or guilty of first-degree or second-degree murder or manslaughter. When they returned to the courtroom, the voice of the judge rang out with his question for the foreman. “Have you reached a verdict?”
The foreman of the jury stood. He was a short man who Johannah had heard managed a hotel in Exeter. He had a long, bushy black moustache, through which he spoke.
“We have, Your Honour.”
“How do you find the defendant?”
“M’lord, we find the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree.”
John Carroll and Martin McLaughlin both appeared satisfied, but to twist the knife, so did Father Connolly. In most cases where a drunken fight had ended in death and the verdict was guilty, a prison term would result, but Judge Bennett put on the black cap to pass sentence.
When he spoke, his words shocked the courtroom: “James Donnelly, you are sentenced to be taken to the jail from whence you came, thence on the seventeenth day of October next to the place of execution, there to be hanged by the neck until you are dead.”
Johannah listened in disbelief and rose to her feet.
“NO! NO!”
Will stood up and put a protective arm around his mother. Jim and Johannah locked eyes, helplessly. He then stared at the floor and slowly shook his head. A moment later, the guards took Jim by his shackled arms and led him away.
On Sunday morning, the sanctuary of St. Patrick’s was almost full and all the talk as the people filed in was of Jim Donnelly’s sentencing. It took the deacons several minutes to quiet the congregation to the point where the service could begin. Nevertheless, it was fully underway when Johannah, looking haggard, entered with her eight children and Billy Farrell. Father Connolly was standing with his back to the congregation saying the mass. Half the congregation turned to watch Johannah as Connolly spoke.
“The grace and peace of God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.”
The congregation replied distractedly, “Blessed be God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
Now every eye turned to watch Johannah Donnelly as she walked up to the altar and knelt with her children just behind the priest, looking at his back as he continued.
“Lord God almighty, creator of all life, of body and soul, we ask you to bless this water as we use it in faith to forgive our sins.”
Sunlight streamed through the stained glass window portraying Saint Sebastian, which Father Connolly had commissioned the year before, the arrows protruding from the young saint’s breast. Johannah’s expression was a little wild as she stared up at Connolly.
“Heal us from all illness and save us from the power of evil…”
“Father,” she called out.
The priest stopped speaking. The church was silent and still. Slowly, in shock, Father Connolly turned around.
“Please talk to them,” Johannah implored.
“How dare you interrupt the Holy Mass.”
“Don’t let him die.”
She had determined she would not cry in front of Father Connolly. “For the children. Plead mercy for him.”
Connolly’s face reflected the self-righteousness he felt in his heart.
“I cannot help you. I witnessed the murder. The judgment on your husband is a fair one. May God have mercy on his soul.”
Johannah was crushed by the priest’s continuing lack of compassion. She stood up but remained where she was. The sanctuary was as silent as the surface of the moon when she turned to face the congregation. She held up a piece of paper.
“They want to kill my husband. Who will sign this petition to stop them?”
Father Connolly was speechless for a moment, clearly aghast that this woman would take such liberties in his church. Johannah went to James Keefe with her petition and a sharp pencil.
“James. Our friend. Will you sign?”
James took the petition and pencil, quickly read it and was about to sign when Father Connolly finally found his voice, in which there was an angry quaver.
“I forbid it.”
James hesitated, did a quick survey of the faces around him, then of the furious priest. He gave the petition back, saying, “I’m sorry, Johannah.” He turned away, his eyes desperately studying the floor. Johannah hesitated, staring at him, then took the petition to the other men in the pews.
“Bob? Robert?”
“In God’s name, I forbid it,” Father Connolly repeated more forcefully.
The Whalens and Hogans reluctantly, in guilt, turned away from her too. Everyone felt the glare of Father Connolly upon them and would not make eye contact with her. Johannah turned to the priest and approached him, her frustration churning into a fury of wild emotions.
“You said to us that Jim should give himself up. He will find God’s justice, you said. I convinced him you were right. I convinced him to give himself up because of what you said to me.”
“I will pray for him.”
Johannah hesitated a moment as his words sunk in. A shadow came over her face. She moved a step closer, her words as bitter as thorns.
“Save your lying prayers, priest.”
He stared at her, speechless.
“You put a noose around his neck!” Johannah continued. “His death will be on your head!”
The congregation held their collective breath. Johannah turned, gathering her children.
“Come Will, Robert, James, Michael, Billy, everyone, let’s go…”
Before leaving the church for good, she stopped at the door and slowly looked around, studying the congregation of Saint Patrick’s, the congregation that had betrayed them. She would never trust a priest again, nor a congregation, nor perhaps even God himself. She shepherded her children from the sanctuary and out onto the steps, slamming the heavy doors behind them.