After the recess for lunch, the trial reconvened. The sun had finally broken through the overcast and the day had warmed considerably. Garish beams of sunlight streamed in the long windows of the meetinghouse, the glare from the whitewashed walls as harsh as a winter morning after a snowstorm. The courtroom had grown uncomfortably warm, the air close and stuffy. Several well-dressed women fanned themselves, and a number of the men had removed their topcoats and hats. Outside in the street, vendors could be heard hawking baked goods and drinks to those gathered there.

The sheriff brought the prisoners over to where Blake was seated at the defense table and removed their manacles.

"Gentlemen," their lawyer said, without looking up. Blake had his spectacles on and was busy writing something. He was sweating profusely now, and his ears and cheeks had a high, flushed color to them. When he finally glanced over at them, Halligan saw he'd been drinking. His blue eyes were loose and distorted beneath the spectacles, his mouth agape, his breathing labored. Why the bloody fool is half-buckled, thought Halligan.

Blake removed his spectacles and put them on the table. He looked over Halligan's shoulder at Daley. "As I mentioned," he whispered, "we are holding our own. But they will be calling the Fuller boy this afternoon. His testimony worries me a great deal. I must ask you once again, Mr. Daley: Have you no idea why he would lie about seeing you with the man's horse?"

"No, sir," Daley said nervously.

"None whatsoever?"

"I swear to God, I don't, Mr. Blake," Daley said, crossing himself.

"He never saw either of you up on the hill?" Blake continued, looking from one to the other, his glassy eyes nonetheless edged with concern.

The two shook their heads.

"And what of the money?"

"What about it?" Halligan asked.

"Are you going to persist in that absurd story that it was yours? I want to believe you didn't kill that boy. I want to believe you're not murderers. But even I have a hard time believing the money wasn't his."

He felt Daley nudge him in the back. "It was ours, Mr. Blake," Halligan said. "That's the truth."

Blake sighed heavily, his breath smelling sour. "Very well then."

In the afternoon, Mr. Hooker continued to direct the prosecution's case, while the attorney general sat stiffly in his chair, his hands folded in his lap, his expression one of haughty indifference. He seemed almost to have lost interest in the whole affair. From time to time he would glance out the window at the sky, or remove from his waistcoat pocket a silver fob watch and check the time.

The first witness that Mr. Hooker called in the afternoon was an Edward Syms, of Boston. He owned a dry goods store there. A slender, nervous man with long mustaches that nearly covered his mouth, he spoke so softly that on several occasions Mr. Hooker had to ask him to repeat his answers.

"Mr. Syms," began the assistant prosecutor, approaching the witness holding two pistols by the barrels, "are these pistols ones you sold?"

The man took one of the pistols and inspected it closely. "I believe they are," he replied. "The figure on the barrel is the same as those we sell."

"When and to whom did you sell them, sir?"

Syms fidgeted in his seat, glancing quickly about the courtroom. He mumbled something, and the prosecutor asked him to repeat his answer louder. "Sometime in the month of October last," he nearly shouted now, which seemed to startle him as much as anyone. "A man came into our store and asked the price of our pistols."

"Did you know the man to whom you sold them?"

"I did not. But he had on a dirty greatcoat. And he spake like an Irishman."

"What was his height?" asked the assistant prosecutor.

"He was of an uncommon stature. About like the prisoner," he said, pointing at Daley.

"Why are you able to recollect this sale so many months later?"

"Because it is unusual for a laboring man to purchase such pistols. So I took note of him."

"Your witness, Mr. Blake."

Without rising from his seat, Blake asked, "Sir, can you say with certainty what his countenance was like?"

"Not with certainty. He was big, as I have noted. And he spake like an Irishman."

"There are many big Irishmen," Blake said. "Can you say with any degree of certainty if either of the prisoners seated before you is the man who purchased these pistols from you?"

Mr. Syms mumbled something and Blake asked him to repeat his reply.

"I cannot say."

"Thank you. That is all."

Next, the prosecution called several witnesses that testified to having seen two men fitting the prisoners' description traveling west on the turnpike on November ninth of the previous year. One man recalled seeing them just east of where Lyon's body was found, and several had passed them to the west of the murder site. One witness, who was having his horse shod in the blacksmith shop just west of the scene of the crime, stated that he happened to see two men passing by and that "they walked very fast and were sweating." When asked if he could recognize either of the prisoners, he pointed at Daley and said, "That one, I can."

"Have you any doubt but Daley was one of them?" Mr. Hooker asked.

"I have not."

The prosecution then called Marvel Underwood, the man Marcus Lyon had worked for in Cazenovia, New York, since the previous spring. He testified to having seen the bank bills Lyon had in his possession when he left his house heading east. He said they had been issued from banks in Nantucket, Saco, Newburyport, and Bristol. The witness said Lyon kept his money in a small purse tied with a string about his neck.

Next to be called to the witness stand was Josiah Bardwell, the member of the sheriff's posse who had been the first actually to come upon the two Irishmen. He had the large, blank eyes of a fish and a prominent powder burn on his right cheek.

"Mr. Bardwell," began Hooker, "let me first extend the gratitude of the entire commonwealth for the brave role you played in the apprehension of these villains."

"I only did my duty," the man replied, smiling sheepishly.

"Would you kindly relate how you were able to capture the two suspects?"

"On Monday morning after the murder, we rode in hard pursuit of the prisoners. We heard of them at the lower ferry and again in Suffield on the west side of the Connecticut River. We continued on to New Haven and thence to Bridgeport, arriving at Norwalk by sun. We found the prisoners at Cross Landing Tavern, a public house in Rye, New York. They were about to board a ferry for New York. That one," he said, pointing at Halligan, "was seated on the stoop, and the other, the big fellow, was inside shaving. We disclosed what our business was and told them we had warrants for their arrest."

"Did you search their persons, sir?"

"We did. I found some silver coins and between them some eighty dollars in bank bills." He then cited the banks the bills had been issued from: a Nantucket bank, a Saco bank, a Newburyport bank, and a Bristol bank.

Mr. Blake objected then, stating that if the bills were of such importance to the prosecution's case, they should be introduced as evidence. But Judge Sedgwick overruled him.

"You earlier heard the testimony of Marvel Underwood," Mr. Hooker went on. "Were not these bills you confiscated from the prisoners drawn on the exact same banks as those Mr. Lyon had in his possession when he left Cazenovia?"

"They seem to be, yes."

Halligan glanced over at the jury. The blacksmith, his headed canted at a slight angle, was staring at him again. His massive dark hands lay curled in thick fists on his lap, as if ready for a fight.

"What else did you find when you searched them?" Mr. Hooker asked.

"We discovered in the inside of their greatcoats deep pockets made in the lining. I asked them the use of these pockets and they replied they were to carry their bottle in." Then he added with an ironic smile, "Though they had not a bottle with them at the time."

"Could these pockets have carried pistols?" Mr. Hooker asked.

"I suppose. They were shaped in the manner of holsters."

"Mr. Bardwell, how far is it from Wilbraham to Rye, New York?"

"One hundred and twenty miles thereabouts, sir."

"And from Boston to Wilbraham?"

"Eighty. Maybe ninety."

"Did you inquire of the prisoners, why it took them from Tuesday to Saturday coming from Boston, a mere eighty miles, but only two days in traveling all the way to Rye, New York, a distance of some one hundred and twenty miles?"

"I did. They did not assign any reason."

"What did you deduce from such a fact?"

"I must object, your honor," said Blake. "It calls on the witness to venture an opinion."

Judge Sedgwick pursed his lips. "I shall allow him to answer."

"I would think they were trying to run from something," he replied.

"Yes, indeed. To run from something. Thank you, Mr. Bardwell."

Now and then Blake would interject a comment, make an objection or cross-examine a witness with a few questions of his own. But mostly he sat quietly, dipping his pen into his inkwell and scribbling things down in his writing tablet. Once, both Blake and Hooker went up to the judges' bench to discuss some point of law. While they were occupied, Halligan turned and surveyed the courtroom. He saw Reverend Williams sitting behind the prosecution table. He had his Bible in his hand and his eyes were shut, as if he was praying. Halligan looked for Mrs. Lyon but didn't see her. He saw her husband but not her. Had she found the morning session too upsetting? He noticed a man standing against the back wall, appearing to be writing in a tablet book. He was heavyset, with silvery hair, and he wore a long gray frock coat even in the heat of the room. When Halligan looked more closely he saw that he was actually sketching something. His hand moved freely over the page. He would look up from his work, stare at them closely, and then return his attention to his tablet. Probably drawing the courtroom scene and the portraits of the accused that would appear in various newspaper accounts and broadsides to be sold after it was over.

Then Halligan spotted the Daleys. The mother had her beads wrapped tightly around her fleshy hand and she seemed to be mouthing the words: Our Father who art in heaven . . . She looked ill, her face a mottled pink, the flesh around her eyes dark and sunken. Finola Daley sat next to the old woman, her son covered in a blanket in her arms. She had an expression of someone trying desperately not to be terrified. Her face was a tense, pale mask, her mouth held in a kind of grimace. Occasionally she'd bend her head, as if to whisper something to the child in her arms. Finola Daley happened to glance in Halligan's direction and their eyes met briefly. There was an awkward moment, when she didn't know how to acknowledge him, whether to smile or wave. At last she gave what he thought was a little nod of her head and the merest hint of a smile, the sort of look that passed between two people who shared an unpleasant secret. It seemed to imply some vague charge or other, an unspoken trust.

Around five there was another short break. Daley told the guards he needed to relieve himself, so they clapped him in irons and took him out back to the privy. Blake was hunkered over his journal writing something. The drink had worn off him now and he was simply tired looking, frayed, the flesh of his face sagging. Dont, Halligan warned himself.

Don't be a bloody fool But he kept thinking of the look Finola had given him earlier, the one that seemed to imply something. And then he thought of the look in Bridie's eyes, that last time he'd seen her. Do you love me, James? Her look frightened and imploring.

He leaned over toward the lawyer and whispered, "Mr. Blake?"

The attorney stopped writing, glanced with bleary eyes at him. "Yes?"

"What if I say I did it?"

"Pardon?"

"What if I say 'twas me killed Lyon?"

"What are you talking about?" Blake asked, the skin of his forehead furrowing into that fleshy M. "Are you saying you want to change your plea, Mr. Halligan?"

"I'm asking what would happen if I said I did it. That Dom had nothing to do with it. That he was just going along with the story to protect me."

"Blazes man!" the attorney hissed in an undertone. "This is a fine time to be telling me this. Is it true?"

Don't, Halligan warned himself a final time. He wasn't used to putting anyone before himself. He'd never seen the sense in that. He'd come to the aid of that young boy who was being beaten by the half-sir and what did it get him? Two years' hard labor. But there was nothing to lose now. Better that only one of them went to the gallows. What, after all, was holding him here? What did he have to live for, except more years of the same? But it was different with Dom. He had something. Something to live for. That woman and child back there. Was that the look in her eye?

"Could you save Dominic?" he asked Blake. "If I said he had nothing to do with it."

"But is it true?" Blake asked again, leaning in close, his breath hot and foul.

"What if I said it was? Could you save him?"

"But is it true?"

"Is what true?" inquired Daley, who had just returned to his seat.

"Your friend here wants to say he killed Lyon," Blake explained, wagging his large head in exasperation.

Daley looked at Halligan in surprise. "What in God's name are ye talkin' about, Jamy?"

"Dom, you have a wife and child to think about."

"Get out with you now. I'll have none o' that."

"Think about it, Dom."

"No. There's nothing to think about. I'll not let you do it, James."

"Could it work, Mr. Blake?" Halligan asked of the lawyer again. "If I confessed to the murder, would it keep Dom from the rope?"

Blake shrugged. "I honestly don't know. They testified to seeing him with Lyon's horse, not you."

"But what if I say 1 acted alone? That Dom was just going along to protect me? Is there a chance you could save him?"

"I suppose there's a chance," Blake conceded. "We could ask to change your plea to guilty. They might accept it. And they might offer something less than death for Mr. Daley. Might, I'm saying. It might also just be the last nail in both your coffins."

"I'm willing to take the chance," Halligan said.

"Well, I'm not," Daley cried.

"Could we have a moment alone, Mr. Blake?" asked Halligan.

The lawyer sighed. "Well be quick about it. I'll get some fresh air."

Halligan turned to Daley. "It was my idea not to turn that money in." he explained. "And then to lie about it. If not for that, we might not even be here."

"We both of us wanted to keep it, and that's the truth. I won't let you do it, Jamy."

"But think on it, Dom."

"No/"

"If not for yourself, think of your wife and child then."