“Mr. Lambert has told you that to him has fallen the most solemn task that can fall to the lot of any man—that of pleading for the gift of human life. There is a still more solemn task, I believe, and that task has fallen to me. I must ask you not for life but for death.
“The law does not exact the penalty of a life for a life in the spirit of vengeance or of malice. It asks it because the flame of human life is so sacred a thing that it is business of the law to see that no hand, however powerful, shall be blasphemously lifted to extinguish that flame. It is in order that your wives and daughters and sisters may sleep sweet and safe at night that I stand before you now and tell you that because they lifted that hand, the lives of Stephen Bellamy and Susan Ives are forfeit.
“These two believed that behind the bulwarks of power, of privilege, of wealth, and of position, they were safe. They were not safe; they have discovered that. And if those barriers can protect them now, if still behind them they can find shelter and security and a wall to shield them as they creep back to their ruined hearthstones, then I say to you that the majesty of the law is a mockery and the sacredness of human life is a mockery, and the death penalty in this great state is a mockery.
“There was never in this state a more wicked, brutal, and cold-blooded murder than that of Madeleine Bellamy. For Susan Ives and Stephen Bellamy, the two who now stand before you accused of that murder, I ask, with all solemnity and fully aware of the tragic duty that I impose on each one of you, the verdict of guilty of murder in the first degree. If you can find it in your hearts, in your souls, or your consciences to render any other verdict, you are more fortunate than I believe you to be.”
In the hushed silence that followed his voice, all eyes turned to the twelve who sat there unmoving, their drawn, pale faces, tired-eyed and tight-lipped, turned toward the merciless flame that burned behind the prosecutor’s white face.
The red-headed girl asked in a desolate small voice that sounded very far away, “Is it all over now? Are they going now?”
“No—wait a moment; there’s the judge’s charge. Here, what’s Lambert doing?”
He was on his feet, swaying a little, his voice barely audible.
“Your Honour, a note has been handed to me this moment. It is written on the card of the principal of the Eastern High School, Mr. Randolph Phipps.”
“What are the contents of this note?”