“After you hear this case, I am sure that you will bring in a verdict of guilty, and we will have justice when the town gathers around the gallows on Front Street to watch this murderer be hanged by the neck until he is dead.”
Gilmore stood silently before the jury for a long moment, letting the word “dead” hang in the air. Then, with a final nod toward the gentlemen of the jury, he returned to his table.
“Damn, he is good,” someone said from behind Smoke. “I had no idea Gilmore was that good.”
Murchison sat at his table for a long moment until, finally, the judge called upon him.
“Counselor for the defense, do you waive your opening remarks?”
“No, Your Honor, I will speak to the jury,” Murchison said.
Standing, he looked toward the jury.
“Mr. Gilmore was correct in saying that I would begin my remarks by addressing you as ‘gentlemen of the jury.’ I do so, with the highest respect for those of you who have been called upon to—as the prosecutor was also correct in saying—make the most awesome and the gravest decision of your lives.
“He was wrong, however, in saying that you would be addressed by a stranger. On the contrary, you are going to be addressed by someone you all knew, respected, and, I think I am safe in saying, someone you could call your friend. I will be mouthing the words, but the words will not be mine. The words will be those of Elmer Brandon, as he wrote them in his extra edition of the
“Ironically, they are the last words he ever wrote because as I’m sure most, if not all of you, know, this talented and courageous newspaper editor was murdered this morning.”
There were some in the gallery who did not yet know that Brandon had been murdered, and upon Murchison’s announcement, there were a few shocked responses.
Judge McCabe picked up his gavel, but rather than bring it down sharply, he gave the gallery a moment to let the shock sink in.
“I have no doubt but that he was murdered because he had the courage, and the sense of obligation, to write these very words I’m about to read to you.”
Murchison picked up the extra broadsheet, and began to read.
“For the first time in this newspaper’s history, the
“The opportunity that trial offers the citizens of Santa Clara is the prospect of resurrecting something that beats deep within the breast of all Americans, something which sets our nation apart from all the nations of Europe and the rest of the world, something that many in this town abandoned long ago, upon the altar of economic security. That something is Democracy.
“Though no one has yet spoken the words aloud, it is no secret to anyone that this town has, for many years now, been in the clutches of a true despot. That despot is Pogue Quentin, who, by skillful and perfidious, if not illegal manipulation, has managed to gain control of nearly all the ranch land surrounding our fair city. He has used that same means to acquire many of the businesses in town so that, by now a majority of our citizens are dependent upon him for their very existence. We may owe Pogue Quentin our livelihoods, but we do not owe him our souls, and by the words here written, your humble scribe is calling upon all to reclaim those souls, so nearly lost.
“How can you do that?
“By making certain that the inalienable rights of trial by jury and innocent until proven guilty are accorded the young man who now stands in peril of his life, due to the trial upcoming.
“Recently, Pogue Quentin’s son, Billy Ray, was killed in a shooting that occurred at the New York Saloon. Though some off-the-record testimony says that the shooting was justifiable, we, the citizens of Santa Clara, have, for the last week, had to suffer the unpleasant sight of a terrible instrument of death, a gallows, constructed in the middle of Front Street. This gallows was constructed, not by the city, or the county, or the state. It was a private construction, paid for by Pogue Quentin. It was constructed to facilitate the execution, by hanging, of a young man who has not yet had his day in court.
“I can also reliably report, having attended the cemetery interment of Billy Ray Quentin and been a witness to the outrageous actions of Pogue Quentin, that he interrupted the sacred burial rites to demand, under penalty of economic pressure, that any citizen who may be called upon for jury duty find Pearlie guilty. He makes this demand before the first piece of evidence is presented, before the first witness is heard, before the opening arguments are made.
“I say no, a thousand times no, to this demand. I say to all our citizens, and especially to whoever may be selected to serve upon this jury, that you remember your obligation to uphold the principles upon which our nation was founded, the rights for which, in the recent Civil War, so many brave young men, in the words of Abraham Lincoln, ‘gave their last full measure of devotion.’
“Whether this young visitor to our town is found guilty or innocent, let it be by a fair trial, decided upon by men of honor and character. It is time for us to reclaim our rights, to lay possession to the civil liberties that are granted to all men by the grace of a just and merciful God, and preserved by the noble efforts of men. Let us walk the streets of Santa Clara with our heads held high and proclaim to one and all that we are Americans!”
When Murchison finished the article, someone in the galley started clapping. Soon another joined, and another still, until the entire gallery was applauding.
Judge McCabe was so taken aback by this sudden and unexpected event that for a moment he sat there in shocked silence. Then he picked up the gavel and banged it, calling for order in the court until the applause subsided.
“I—I will not allow another demonstration like this,” he said.
Murchison noticed as he sat down, however, that the judge’s words, though chastising, were not harsh. It was as if he understood the natural outpouring of emotion the citizens of the town had at hearing the last words ever written by the editor of their newspaper.
