Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(78)

Arnett paused and took a deep breath. “Her deception came at a very high cost. After their illicit sexual congress, I believe she revealed the truth: that she had no information and was suffering from a grave disease. When he grew wroth at the deception, she scorned him.”

The prosecutor looked up at him. “Any reasonable man would be angry at having been played for a fool. For the prisoner, it was more than his pride on the line. Not only might he become syphilitic himself, but his golden opportunity had been ruthlessly torn from him.”

Arnett swiveled toward the jury. “In a moment of inhuman rage, Detective-Sergeant Jonathon Keats strangled the life out of Nicola Hallcox. He then arranged her body in that grotesque and obscene pose to display his contempt for the woman who had so easily duped him.”

No!

“The death of Nicola Hallcox is a travesty that cries out for judgement. I ask you, the members of the jury, to weigh the evidence and find this tormented man guilty of the crime of willful murder.”

Some of Justice Hawkins’ charge to the jury filtered through the thick fog into which Keats had stumbled. It sounded evenhanded, as the judge weighed the evidence presented from both the defence and the prosecution.

Finally, the justice explained, “A man’s life lies in your hands. If you are not so convinced of the prisoner’s guilt, then he is entitled to be acquitted. If, however, you are satisfied that he did commit this crime, then it is your duty to say so without reservation. You must determine his fate. That is the wisdom of our law. ”



~??~??~??~



It had been the longest hour of Keats’ life. He’d spent it in prayer, fingers working the beads of his dead mother’s rosary. Now, as the jury filed in, he hoped God had heard his impassioned pleas.

As the Chaplain took his required place, muffled voices came from the gallery. They were taking bets. From what he could hear, they were split as to the outcome. His eyes hopped from juror to juror. None of them looked upward at the dock.

Please, God, you know I didn’t do this.

The Clerk of the Court asked, “Gentlemen, have you agreed upon your verdict?”

The Foreman of the Jury rose. “We have.”

“Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty of the murder of Nicola Therese Hallcox?”

The Foreman paused for a fraction of a second. “We find the prisoner guilty.”

Guilty. It hit with all the force of a sledgehammer blow to the gut.

Beneath him, he saw the stricken face of Lady Wescomb, a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Cousin Roddy stared upward at him in horror while Fisher closed his eyes, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Alastair bowed his head in defeat.

How could it have come to this?

The Clerk turned toward Keats. “Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of the crime of willful murder. Have you anything to say why the Court should not give you judgment of death according to law?”

His knees like jelly, Keats squared his shoulders and rose with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Yes, I do.” He cleared his throat. “I proclaim my innocence in this matter. I did not murder Nicola Hallcox. My only crime was the desperate need to capture Desmond Flaherty.”



As he spoke, he felt his fury rising at the injustice. He had dedicated his life to the law, and it had failed him when he needed it the most.

They’re going to hang me. What the hell does it matter now?

He steeled himself and raised his voice, pointing his words directly at the jurors.

“By Almighty God, I swear that I did not pursue my obsession purely for the chance of a commendation or an advancement in rank. I made the decision to continue my hunt for Desmond Flaherty because he still has at the very least, a wagonload of gunpowder and a substantial amount of dynamite, with which he threatens this city at this very moment!”

As Arnett began to sputter, Kingsbury delivered a subtle nod, along with a hint of an approving smile. Keats was finally saying what he and Wescomb had been denied.

Justice Hawkins called for order as the courtroom swirled into a tempest of voices. Keats took advantage of the mayhem to seek out Fisher in the crowd. His efforts were amply rewarded: his superior’s face held an expression of awe.

“Mr. Keats,” the justice warned. “You know—”

“With all due respect to your lordship and the Crown, the truth has not been heard in this courtroom. I do not fault you, my lord, but those in the government who hide behind their intrigues and allow the innocent to suffer.”

“Is that your statement?” Hawkins demanded.

“Nearly.” Keats took a deep breath, his heart pounding so hard it threatened to choke him.

“I have served with pride, alongside men of singularly dedicated purpose. To that end, I ask that my conviction not tarnish the reputation of my fellow officers at Scotland Yard. This stain should fall on my shoulders alone.” He gave a nod to indicate he was done.

Justice Hawkins eyed him sternly. “Jonathon Davis Keats, you have been convicted, upon evidence, of the murder of Nicola Hallcox. I find it detestable when a citizen violates the laws. It is indefensible when a police officer does the same. No matter your reasons, noble or otherwise, for the crime of which you have been convicted our law knows but one penalty—the penalty of death. I recommend that you make your peace with Almighty God before you stand before His throne. Perhaps He will see it in His heart to pardon you for this hideous crime.”