wanted to pounce on the marshal for treating her so rudely, he could do nothing as they hustled him through the swinging doors. She followed quickly, her heart thundering in her ribcage.
The pop of flashbulbs lit the courtroom as Seannie Jackson, the man convicted of killing a guard during a brazen mid-town bank robbery, was ushered in. Reporters shouted questions at him, observers in the seats craned their necks to get a better look at the infamous Handsome Seannie as newspaper columnist Walter Wincette had labeled him. Women fanned themselves and called out to the good looking convict, squealing his name as though he were a movie star.
Her lover’s lawyer was already at the defense table, shuffling papers, looking harried but determined. He cast her a worried look and motioned her to a seat right behind the rail that separated the defense table from the gallery. She pushed her way through the throng of reporters who were dogging Seannie’s every step and wedged past several spectators to reach the seat the lawyer had reserved for her.
“Any word on what the judge might give him, Peterson?” a reporter yelled to Seannie’s lawyer.
“They’re gonna throw the book at him,” someone spoke up. “He’ll get life without the possibility of parole. Whatcha wanna bet?”
“I say they’ll fry him. He’ll get the chair!” another spectator declared.
She shivered at that hateful remark and she noticed that her lover did, as well, as the guards unshackled him before leading him to his lawyer’s table.
“Don’t worry, Maeve,” Seannie’s lawyer said, leaning over the rail. “There’s not much chance of a death sentence.” He patted her hand as she clutched her purse tightly to her chest.
Her lover smiled at her as he took his seat and she ached to reach over the rail and caress his shoulder. The suit they’d given him was stretched taut across that broad expanse and the trousers fit much too snugly to be comfortable. He seemed ill at ease as he sat there with his head down, listening to whatever his lawyer was telling him. She saw him chaffing his wrists and wondered if the lawmen had deliberately tightened the handcuffs to hurt him.
“All rise!”
The judge came into the courtroom and took the bench, his scowling face causing immediate silence among those gathered. He settled his billowy black robe around his corpulent body and sat down, his beady, hawk like gaze surveying the spectators before settling on Seannie. She thought she saw the man’s thin lips lift into a sneer and her hope began to fade.
“The defendant will rise,” the judge pronounced.
Her lover and his lawyer got to their feet.
“Sean Patrick Jackson, you have been duly convicted of murder in the death of Lionel Kraft, a father of nine whom you shot down in cold blood on the morning of August 5th of this year while engaged in the robbing of the First National Bank of Lewiston. Twelve good men convicted you of this cowardly crime, and it is now left to me to pass sentence upon you.”
She saw the judge narrow his eyes.
“Do you wish to make a statement before I hand down your sentence?”
Her lover stood straighter, his head up. “I am very sorry for what happened to Mr. Kraft, Your Honor, and I extend my sympathy to his wife and children, but it was not my gun that took his life. I am innocent of his death. As God is my witness, I did not fire my gun that day.”
The judge nodded, his lips pursed.
“Sean Patrick Jackson, after much consideration and lengthy perusal of the facts gleaned from eye witnesses to the robbery, it is the decision of this court that you are to be remanded to the penitentiary at Broadmore where this court sentences you to death by electrocution …”
Those gathered in the court erupted into a loud, harsh roar of sound that had most of the spectators on their feet. Some women appeared to faint, others wailed, their cries of lamentation filling the room.
She sat in her chair--stunned by the news,
The pop of flashbulbs lit the courtroom as Seannie Jackson, the man convicted of killing a guard during a brazen mid-town bank robbery, was ushered in. Reporters shouted questions at him, observers in the seats craned their necks to get a better look at the infamous Handsome Seannie as newspaper columnist Walter Wincette had labeled him. Women fanned themselves and called out to the good looking convict, squealing his name as though he were a movie star.
Her lover’s lawyer was already at the defense table, shuffling papers, looking harried but determined. He cast her a worried look and motioned her to a seat right behind the rail that separated the defense table from the gallery. She pushed her way through the throng of reporters who were dogging Seannie’s every step and wedged past several spectators to reach the seat the lawyer had reserved for her.
“Any word on what the judge might give him, Peterson?” a reporter yelled to Seannie’s lawyer.
“They’re gonna throw the book at him,” someone spoke up. “He’ll get life without the possibility of parole. Whatcha wanna bet?”
“I say they’ll fry him. He’ll get the chair!” another spectator declared.
She shivered at that hateful remark and she noticed that her lover did, as well, as the guards unshackled him before leading him to his lawyer’s table.
“Don’t worry, Maeve,” Seannie’s lawyer said, leaning over the rail. “There’s not much chance of a death sentence.” He patted her hand as she clutched her purse tightly to her chest.
Her lover smiled at her as he took his seat and she ached to reach over the rail and caress his shoulder. The suit they’d given him was stretched taut across that broad expanse and the trousers fit much too snugly to be comfortable. He seemed ill at ease as he sat there with his head down, listening to whatever his lawyer was telling him. She saw him chaffing his wrists and wondered if the lawmen had deliberately tightened the handcuffs to hurt him.
“All rise!”
The judge came into the courtroom and took the bench, his scowling face causing immediate silence among those gathered. He settled his billowy black robe around his corpulent body and sat down, his beady, hawk like gaze surveying the spectators before settling on Seannie. She thought she saw the man’s thin lips lift into a sneer and her hope began to fade.
“The defendant will rise,” the judge pronounced.
Her lover and his lawyer got to their feet.
“Sean Patrick Jackson, you have been duly convicted of murder in the death of Lionel Kraft, a father of nine whom you shot down in cold blood on the morning of August 5th of this year while engaged in the robbing of the First National Bank of Lewiston. Twelve good men convicted you of this cowardly crime, and it is now left to me to pass sentence upon you.”
She saw the judge narrow his eyes.
“Do you wish to make a statement before I hand down your sentence?”
Her lover stood straighter, his head up. “I am very sorry for what happened to Mr. Kraft, Your Honor, and I extend my sympathy to his wife and children, but it was not my gun that took his life. I am innocent of his death. As God is my witness, I did not fire my gun that day.”
The judge nodded, his lips pursed.
“Sean Patrick Jackson, after much consideration and lengthy perusal of the facts gleaned from eye witnesses to the robbery, it is the decision of this court that you are to be remanded to the penitentiary at Broadmore where this court sentences you to death by electrocution …”
Those gathered in the court erupted into a loud, harsh roar of sound that had most of the spectators on their feet. Some women appeared to faint, others wailed, their cries of lamentation filling the room.
She sat in her chair--stunned by the news,
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