"I told you what happened."

"Did you?"

"Yes," he said, "I've told you the truth. I have." But his voice was hollow, unconvincing. Halligan glanced over his shoulder at the people in the courtroom. They were staring at the boy with an element of doubt in their eyes now that hadn't been there before. Well, I'll be damned, Halligan thought.

"Are you sure you're not covering for someone else?" Blake continued. "The real perpetrators of this horrid crime."

"No," he said, and now he actually started to cry. Tears slid down his sallow cheeks. "I'm not, I tell you. I told you what I saw. I'm not lying."

"You've told us a nice story," Blake said condescendingly. "Thank you, Laertes."

It was late in the evening when the last witness had finished his testimony. Outside, darkness had already fallen, and it had turned chilly with a cool wind coming in from the mountains to the northwest. Yet most of the large crowd remained, eager to hear the verdict. Through the windows, the spectators in the courtroom could see torches and lanterns gleaming in the night. A large bonfire had been built on the center green, around which many had assembled for warmth. Some had taken to passing around jugs of hard cider. With it the crowd, which had been fairly sedate for most of the trial, had grown more boisterous and rowdy. There were shouts and cries, and the sound of drunken laughter drifted into the courthouse.

When Blake finally got up to give his summation, it was approaching nine o'clock. As he addressed the jury, he paced about the courtroom. Though he held his notes in his hand, he hardly referred to them, preferring to speak unaided. He went over the evidence again. He argued that the prosecution had produced not a single eyewitness to the murder, and that all the other evidence was merely presumptive in nature. He took issue with the guns found at the murder scene, saying that the only proof the prosecution put forward that they were owned by the defendants was that the buyer of the pistols "talked like an Irishman." More to the point, that Dr. Merrick had testified that the bullet that struck Lyon did not match either of the two supposed murder weapons, and that the prosecution had proposed no explanation for this. Likewise, Blake said, the prosecution did not even offer into evidence the money that was taken from the defendants. He forcefully argued against the point the prosecution had made about the speed with which the two traveled after the crime, saying the road was level and the weather much improved south of Springfield, and, he added, murderers would assuredly not have traveled so openly or carelessly as these two men had. He said the "supposed" holsters were merely pockets intended to hold refreshments for thirsty travelers. He spent a long while pointing out the flimsy nature of the rest of the so-called "evidence" the prosecution offered, which was mostly hearsay or conjecture. Finally, he spoke for nearly a half hour alone on the various inconsistencies and flaws and downright contradictions of the prosecution's main witness, Laertes Fuller.

Halligan had to admit that he was favorably surprised by Blake's abilities as an orator. The man spoke with clarity and reason in mostly measured tones. At the same time, despite his cold, he managed to infuse his voice with passion and fervor, and above all, with conviction. He made those listening believe that he believed the two were innocent. In fact, by the time Blake was winding up his summation, Halligan had felt a subtle but clear change come over the courtroom. As he glanced around, he saw some here and there nodding in agreement with the things Blake was saying, others whispering amongst themselves. The expressions on the faces of the jurors had also undergone a decided transformation. Before they had, to a person, a hardened, cynical look; now some had an expression that might best be described as uncertain. For the first time, a few of them had had their unassailable notions of the guilt of the prisoners challenged. Even the blacksmith was no longer staring at him, but seemed to be weighing each of Blake's words as if it were a piece of iron to which he would have to give shape. Halligan allowed himself a small measure of optimism. Perhaps they did have a chance after all.

Finally, the defense attorney walked over to where the jury sat. Some of them were yawning and fidgeting in their seats. After all, they had been there since nine that morning, and it was getting on toward eleven in the evening.

"In the investigation of every case," Blake continued, his hands folded over his belly, "the jury are pledged by their oaths, to guard every avenue of the mind against the approach of prejudice. That the prisoners here before the bar have been tried, convicted, and condemned in almost every barroom and barber's shop, and in every other place of public resort in the county, nay, in the entire commonwealth, is a fact which will not be contested. That the defendants have already received the penalty of death in many minds is also beyond dispute. But gentlemen, you have taken the oath to avoid such prejudices and to weigh the evidence carefully and impartially, and to discriminate between idle rumors and gossip, and the facts which have been this day presented to you.

"There is another and more dangerous species of prejudice it is my duty to warn you against. I allude to the inveterate hostility against the people of that wretched country from which the prisoners have emigrated, for which the people of New England are peculiarly distinguished. How far this hostility is the result of narrow and illiberal opinion, or how far it is justified by the character and conduct of those who have come among us, it is not for us here to decide. Whether they are wandering fugitives from justice or the exiled victims of oppression, do not, I beg of you, believe them guilty simply because they go by the name of Irishmen. Take, for example, the testimony of Mr. Syms. He assumed the man who came into his store was guilty of some wrong simply because he spoke in the suspicious dialect of their country. His mind is infected with the national prejudice which would lead him to prejudge the prisoners simply because they are Irishmen. Pronounce then a verdict against them! Condemn them to the gibbet! Send them 'to their great account with all their imperfections on their heads,' to paraphrase Hamlet. Hold out an awful warning to the wretched fugitives from that oppressed arid persecuted nation, saying despite our boasted philanthropy, we have no mercy for a wandering and expatriated fugitive from that blasted nation! Tell them that the name of an Irishman is, among us, but another name for robber and assassin, that when a crime of unexpected atrocity is perpetrated among us, we look around for an Irishman to lay the blame upon.

"The lives of these men," Blake said, coming to stand before the prisoners, "are now consigned to your hands. You have been asked to pass judgment not based on prejudice or age-old hatred of their countrymen, but on 'plain, direct, and manifest proof--the sort of legal proof which is deemed necessary by the law but which my esteemed colleagues have clearly failed to present for you today. It is neither my right nor my inclination to attempt to arouse your sympathy or passions for these poor wretches. I may not therefore speak of the afflicted mother and wife and child of one of the prisoners--who appear humbly in this courtroom today." As he said this, he pointed toward the back of the room where the Daleys sat huddled together. Everyone turned to gaze at them. "Their lives are interwoven with that of Mr. Daley. They are tied to him by the strongest threads of familial love and devotion, but threads which must ultimately be severed by the same stroke that dooms him to the gibbet. Still, I may, without incurring your displeasure, remind you of the various lives your decision will affect. Before you proceed to your solemn duty, let me remind you that there is another than human tribunal where the best of us will have occasion to look back on the little good we may have done in this life. In that solemn trial may your verdict on this day give assurance to your hopes and afford you strength and consolation in the awful presence of an adjudging God. I thank you, gentlemen."

When he sat down, Halligan could see the sweat pouring down his reddened face. His collar was soaked and he was breathing hard.

" Twas a right smart piece of speakin', Mr. Blake," said Daley.

The attorney nodded. Though he looked like he could use a drink of rum, his eyes were filled with that same earlier nervous energy. His fat fingers anxiously tapped on the table.

The attorney general then rose and walked slowly over to the jury.

"Gentlemen," he said, "the solemnity of this trial tends to establish a proper estimate of human life. The counsel for the defense has urged, with irresistible eloquence, the importance of this trial for the prisoners. It now remains but for me to arrange the evidence. If in the performance of my office, there should appear to be a warmth of expression or a zeal of conduct, which would bear unreasonably hard on the prisoners, you will impute it to error, and not from any opinion I have of the prisoners' guilt. The judges are, by constitution and the laws, to be of counsel for the prisoners, and I am relieved from the apprehension I should otherwise feel, by the consideration that any undue impressions I may make on your minds will be fairly balanced by these men in their direction to you, and thus lead you into the path of your duty."

At this he glanced at Judge Sedgwick, who seemed to visibly stiffen.

"Your verdict will determine the fate of the prisoners as to life or death. You have sworn that you will well and truly try, and true deliverance make between the commonwealth and the prisoners whom you have in charge, according to the evidence. As my esteemed colleague," he said, casting a glance at Blake, "has stated, you are not to suffer any prejudice to have weight in your minds, and it is of no consequence to you what the opinion of the multitude attending the trial may be." Here the attorney general paused, glancing around the packed courtroom. The jury, too, followed his lead, surveying the crowd uneasily. "The very idea that you may be prejudiced against these men, as my esteemed colleague has implied, because they are foreigners, Irishmen and Catholics, can have no foundation but in a warm imagination. The supposition that such an idea could operate in a charge against you would be an ill treatment of your characters. The prisoners are men and as such are entitled to as fair a trial as men of the first rank. The law, gentlemen, must remain sacred."

Sullivan spoke for some twenty or thirty minutes more. Finally, he thanked the jury and hobbled over to his seat. Before sitting down, he threw a glance in Halligan's direction.

Blake leaned toward them and whispered, "They've not proved their case against you. I think we're all right."

Before the jury was sent off for their deliberations, Judge Sedgwick said a few words in his charge to them, about the presumption of innocence and of reasonable doubt and the categories of evidence. Near the end, he explained, "Your verdict must finally depend upon the testimony of Laertes Fuller. You have been told by the defense that this boy is not to be believed, that he is too young, that his story is inaccurate or incredible," he said, looking at Blake. "Of this, gentlemen, you are the judges. But we deem it our duty to observe to you that he hath ever been consistent. That the story he told to the coroner at the inquest and to the justices who examined the prisoners after they were apprehended and which he has related to you today has ever been uniform and consistent."

Blake stood and exclaimed, "With all due respect, your honor--" But the judge cut him short, telling him to be seated.

"Gentlemen of the jury," Sedgwick resumed, "this brings you to a point which leaves but little room for doubt. If you believe this witness, you must therefore return a verdict of conviction."

"Your honor, I really must object," Blake said, standing again. "The boy's testimony must stand on its own merit."

"Overruled, counselor."

"This is highly irregular, your honor. Sir Edward Coke, in favorem vitae, has written--"

"Sic down, sir!" Judge Sedgwick commanded, pointing his gavel at him. "I shall not warn you again." Blake finally complied, dropping wearily into his seat. He shook his head, a disgruntled look on his soft, fleshy face.

The cause was then submitted to the jury, and at the command of the sheriff two guards escorted the twelve men up the street to Pomeroy's Tavern, there to conduct their deliberations. When the crowd saw the jury emerge from the meetinghouse, a great roar rang out. A few called out to the jurors by name, reminding them of their duty to the dead young man or exhorting them to make those "paddies" pay for their crime. The prisoners were again placed in manacles and brought down into the cellar to await the jury's deliberations. Daley and Halligan sat on the dirt floor. Soon Blake joined them.

"What happens now?" Halligan asked the attorney.

"We wait," replied Blake, who remained standing. "Try to relax. It may be a while."

Halligan was going to ask him what he thought their chances were, but he decided not to.

"Your family may see you now," Blake said to Daley. "I'll go arrange it."

In a little while, Daley's family appeared in the cellar, escorted by several guards. Finola Daley was in front, with the mother behind her, holding the child. On seeing them, Daley's face suddenly brightened.

" 'Faith, 'tis good to see you, Finola," he cried, standing and going to his wife. With the manacles on he couldn't hug her, so he had to make do with holding her hands. She lifted his hands to her mouth and kissed them, her tears spilling onto his knuckles. His mother stood back, allowing them a moment together. Halligan thought of all the private things Daley had had him write to her, and all those she'd written back. Despite this, there was about them, he noticed, an awkwardness, a polite and distant strangeness as between two people just beginning to court. Perhaps it was due to the time they'd been apart or to his changed appearance, or perhaps because they were surrounded by strangers. She touched his long, straggly beard.

"They don't let us shave," he explained, embarrassed.

She smiled self-consciously, like a young girl. "It makes you look ... I don't know. Handsome."

"Musha, dear," said Daley. "I missed you so."

"I missed you, too." By degrees, they lost their strangeness with each other. She put her arms around him and, standing on tiptoe as he was so much taller, kissed him lightly on the cheek. Then she turned toward the old woman and the baby. "Say hello to your mother," Finola said.

"Hello, Mam," he said, taking her hand, kissing her on the forehead. "Thanks for coming."

"How are you, son?" she asked, her gray eyes filling with tears.

"I'm all right. And you?"

"Fine," she said, wiping her eyes. "Look who we brung."

His mother unwrapped the blanket so that he could see his son's sleeping face.

"The poor thing is dead tired. It's been a long day for him," Finola Daley said.

"Sure and he's gettin' big," her husband exclaimed.

"Can he hold him?" his mother asked, turning to one of the guards. The man nodded, and Daley's mother handed him his son.

With the handcuffs on he held his son awkwardly, cautiously, as if he were a piece of fine crystal he feared dropping. He stared down at his son's sleeping face. "Would ye lookit the lad. Who's he favor?" Daley asked of no one in particular.

"I think he favors you, Dom," his mother replied.

"Why, he's the spittin' image of you, dear," his wife said.

Daley smiled proudly. He bent over and kissed the baby on the forehead. The child stirred, then woke up, staring wide-eyed at the strange figure above him.

"Hey, little fellow," Daley said. "It's me. Your da."

Warily, the baby continued to watch the face hovering above him.

"Where's your manners, son?" his mother chided him. "Ain't you gonna introduce us to your friend?"

"Sorry. This is Jamy Halligan. It's him as writes those fine letters."

Halligan stood and went over to them, the chains rattling on the floor.

"Glad to meet you, Mrs. Daley," he offered. "Much obliged for the clothes."

"Was the church bought 'em for you," the mother said. "Father Cheverus give us the money."

"I hope they fit," the wife said. Then, blushing, she added, "We didn't know what cut of man you were."

"They fit fine," he replied. "Thank you."

"When this is all over, Mr. Halligan," said the old lady, "will you not come and stay with us for a bit?"

"If you'd like."

"We would be honored, Mr. Halligan," said Finola Daley.

"Jamy can read a book this fat," Daley bragged, holding his fingers three inches apart. "He said he'd learn me to read and write."

"Wouldn't that be grand?" his wife said, smiling at Halligan.

They sat on the dirt floor and talked for a while, though not a word about the trial. They spoke about the baby. About Dominic's father, who regretted that he couldn't come but sent his love. About his brothers and sisters back in Boston. About his mother's health, which she said was improving day by day. About Father Cheverus and how it was thanks to him that they were permitted this visit.

" 'Twas him got Mr. Sullivan to let us in," the mother said.

"Father's a good man," Daley said.

"A bit particular, he is," the mother added, "but a good man."

"How's the weather back home?" Daley asked.

"Rainy and cold," Finola replied. "How has it been out here?"

"The same. Though I don't get out much," he added, smiling sheepishly.

The old lady laughed awkwardly. "Would you listen to him. Have they been giving you enough to eat? You look like you lost some weight, son."

"I'm fine, Ma," Daley replied.

"You're hardly but skin and bones. I'll fatten you up when you get home."

Home, Halligan thought. Bloody little chance of seeing that again.

They chatted for another half hour. As they did, Halligan stole an occasional glance at Finola and her child. Up close, she wasn't much to look at. Plain like the baby, pale, gaunt featured. And so thin. Finola did have a pretty smile though. A sad smile, one that withheld something. While she didn't look a thing like Bridie, Finola made him think of her. He thought how, if by some stroke of luck he did get out of this mess, he might write to her. Yes, he just might. But what would he say? That he was sorry. That he'd made a terrible mistake. Maybe to show his sincerity, he would even offer to have her come now, that is, if she still wanted to join him. He realized that was probably asking too much. Leaving her the way he had, all alone, with child, shamed before her father, before her people. Not a word from him in nearly four years. No doubt she hated him, and had every right to. She'd probably already put him behind her, gotten on with her life, married someone else, someone more of her station. If not out of love at least out of necessity, to give the child a name, and her the gloss of respectability. It was crazy to think she would forgive him, much less come. Still, the idea glistened in the darkness of his mind like the first star at night, silvery and sparkling.

My Dearest Bridie, he thought. Then he decided not to use my. What right did he have to suggest any sort of ownership of her feelings now? Dear Bridie, he started over. I haven't the words to explain to you my heart's feelings. That, too, was wrong. Why would she care what resided in his heart now, or believe what he said of it? So he began a third time, saying simply, Dear Bridie, Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive one so foolish? Yes, that was better.

But Blake appeared then, huffing and puffing from the climb down the stairs. His broad face was blank and palid as a cheese wheel. "The jury has returned," he said flatly. "We must go up."

They stood. Finola Daley leaned toward her husband and whispered something into his ear which made him smile. Then she kissed him again, on the lips, pressing her thin body into his. She was smiling and sobbing both, her thin shoulders quivering.

"Let us say a prayer," Mrs. Daley said. They got down on their knees in a circle on the dirt floor. They held hands. "Join us, Mr. Halligan," the old lady offered.

He knelt, but he didn't pray. Instead, he thought of the letter to Bridie.

Th e clerk called the court to order. When everything was quiet, Judge Sedgwick told the prisoners to stand and face the jury. Then he asked the foreman, "Have you reached a verdict, gentlemen?"

"We have, your honor," replied the man, clearing his voice. He was a tall, bearded man with the gnarled, battered hands of a stonemason. Halligan kept his eyes not on him but on the blacksmith for some reason. The dark-skinned man returned his look, his gaze severe and unwavering. Halligan knew the verdict even before the foreman said, "We find the prisoners guilty."

"So say you all?" the judge asked.

"We do."

The courtroom buzzed. One man rushed outside to tell the spectators in the street of the guilty verdict. Immediately the church bells tolled and somewhere in the distance several gunshots resounded across the valley. Halligan glanced over at Daley, who was looking in shock at his family. His jaw hung open, his blue-gray eyes empty husks. "What will she do?" he said. "What will she do?" Halligan touched his forearm. "It's all right, Dom," he said, though he knew it wouldn't be.

The two judges conferred with each other for several minutes. As they did so, Blake leaned over to them and whispered, "I am sorry. I did my best." His face was sunken with gloom, his pretty blue eyes downcast.

Though he was numbed by the verdict, Halligan patted the attorney's arm and said, "You did a fine job, Mr. Blake. Nobody can say any different." He actually felt a certain fondness now for the fat man.

"Don't give up hope. I will appeal the verdict," Blake said.

The judge pounded his gavel to quiet the room.

"Before I pass sentence on you," he said, staring at the two, "I deem it my duty to observe that it is almost impossible to doubt of your guilt. Therefore you ought to entertain no hope of mercy from the government. The crime of which you are found guilty is the highest against the law of nature, of which a man in a state of civilized society can commit. For a crime so horrid, you have demonstrated that you are unworthy of the society of men. Therefore you must look beyond this life, to direct all your hopes to another and eternal existence. You will very soon appear before a tribunal infinitely more awful than that which has now investigated your guilt. I entreat you to seek for reconcilement and forgiveness from the Almighty. To this end, a learned and pious clergy will be most happy to give you instruction in the weeks ahead." As he said this, he looked toward the minister, Solomon Williams, seated there in the courtroom. "That you may repent your crime and be forgiven, I most sincerely and fervently pray.

"It now only remains that we do as our duty enjoins, pronounce against you the sentence of the law. Therefore, I order that you, Dominic Daley, and you, James Halligan, be remanded to the prison from which you came, to remain there until such a time as the court desires and from thence be taken to the place of execution and that you there be hung by the neck until you are dead. Furthermore, that your bodies be dissected and anatomized. May God Almighty have mercy on your souls." He slammed the gavel down on the table and the trial was over.

Chaos broke out. People were rushing about, talking, calling out, shouting. Some ran outside to inform the crowd of the sentence. When they heard it, another great cheer went up from those assembled. The guards quickly moved to surround the prisoners. Daley fell down on his knees. "Mother o' God," he cried over and over. He folded his hands and began to pray.

"Don't lose hope," Blake shouted above the din. "I'll file an appeal: It's not over."

Halligan nodded, but he knew otherwise. They were as good as dead already, that's all there was to it. It was as if a heavy steel door had closed shut on him.

PART III.