In their six weeks of close association the twelve men had developed a sense of camaraderie that would bind them together for the rest of their lives. Over thirty years later, Dever, destitute in a veteran’s hospital, would find himself visited by Atwood and Gerard, and there again they would talk over the case. But in this first moment of being alone no one quite knew how to begin.
Dever finally suggested that first of all they take an informal ballot, nothing binding, just to get an idea how they felt. Sitting around the table, each marked a slip of paper and handed it down to Ripley who, as foreman, occupied the end seat. Dever believed the defendants guilty but he voted for acquittal on the first ballot to open up a discussion. The vote was ten to two for conviction. “Then,” Dever told a reporter long afterward, “we started discussing things, reviewed the very important evidence about the bullets, and everybody had a chance to speak his piece. There never was any argument, though. We just were convinced Sacco and Vanzetti had done what the prosecution had charged them with.” The Winchester bullet taken from Berardelli’s body had, they felt, been fired from Sacco’s pistol. And the same three kinds of shells that Thomas Fraher had picked up in front of Rice & Hutchins had been found in Sacco’s pocket. Seward Parker remarked that you couldn’t depend on the witnesses—“but the bullets, there’s no way of getting round that.” Alfred Atwood agreed with him. John Ganley was impressed by what Reed, the Matfield gate-tender, said about seeing Vanzetti at the crossing. The twelve did not even bother to ballot again. They talked over various aspects of the case but no longer debated guilt or innocence. Someone suggested that they ask for a reading glass to examine the bullets. A deputy brought them one. It would have been possible for them to bring in their verdict at the end of the afternoon. They decided, however, that it would look better if they waited until after supper. Shortly after six Judge Thayer sent them out to eat. By half-past seven they were back.
The shadows of the trees and the buildings were long across the High Street, but the setting sun brought no relief from the heat. A scattering of spectators waited in the courtroom. There were groups of white-shirted figures on the steps, on the grass, on the sidewalk across the street, restless groups that joined together, broke apart, or receded in the direction of Dedham Square. Always there was a corporal’s guard of newspapermen to keep a careful eye on the upper rear window where, behind the plate glass, the overhead light had now been turned on.
At 7:55 Deputy Sheriff Fales heard a triple knock on the jury-room door. It was sharp, final, not the tentative knock meaning that a reading glass or some such thing was wanted. He unlocked the door and Ripley told him the verdict was ready. Fales’ face kept its professional impassivity. He took the message, locked the door again, then went downstairs to telephone the warden at the jail. To the newsmen who looked at him questioningly as he passed, he nodded.
A few minutes before, a slight breeze had sprung up. Harold Williams, the McAnarneys, several state troopers, and deputy sheriffs were standing near the columns enjoying the coolness when someone came out and whispered the news. An invisible telegraph seemed to flash the word through Dedham. The white-shirted groups on the grass dissolved, the loungers vanished, from all directions running figures converged on the courthouse. The High Street echoed with footsteps. Upstairs the courtroom windows suddenly blazed with light.
In the ten minutes that it took to bring the defendants over from the jail the gates had been closed and a guard of troopers thrown around the courthouse. On the steps a crowd that by now stretched across the street forced its way up to the iron barrier. Those who had gone up to the courtroom earlier were allowed to stay, but, except for the lawyers and the newspapermen, no one else was admitted.
Sacco and Vanzetti were brought in through the side entrance, taken up the back stairs, their handcuffs removed, and the door of the cage closed behind them. Sacco looked pale, almost ill. Vanzetti spoke a few words to him, a frown scoring his forehead. Rosina sat close by, making quick birdlike movements, managing to smile each time her husband glanced at her.
The pause before the jury entered the room was so oppressive that it became almost tangible. Inside the bar enclosure the lawyers waited, Moore fiddling with a pencil, his hair dank. The deputies stood at the entrances, the stenographers had their notebooks open, Judge Thayer sat in his place. From time to time everyone in the courtroom glanced at the twelve empty seats flanked by the American flag. Then the door opened.
The jurors filed in, their eyes fixed on the floor. Seeing their mood, Tom McAnarney raised his arm in a gesture of despair. The lines between Vanzetti’s eyes were like cords. Sacco glanced from one face to another as the jury passed.
The jurors settled in their seats. Judge Thayer nodded obliquely at Clerk Worthington who, precise and impersonal, asked them if they had agreed on a verdict. Then, scarcely waiting for the foreman’s reply, he called out “Nicola Sacco.” Sacco rose to his feet as if he were in a trance, and Worthington’s singsong voice continued: