In the last part Ben stood trial for the murder of Mario Colosimo. It ended with the closing arguments carried over to the next day.

^^^^^^^^^

“Gentlemen of the jury,” the Prosecutor stood directly in front of them, a little closer than the closest was comfortable with. “This case is as simple as it can be. The defendant injured the victim and the victim died from that injury.”

The Prosecutor turned away as if he was finished.

After a couple steps toward Ben, the Prosecutor looked squarely. “And he didn’t even deny it! Oh, to be sure, the man who killed another man on the streets of our city has done nice things. Sure. Jack-the-Ripper no doubt loved his mother and was a good neighbor.

“No doubt the defense counsel will attempt to introduce evidence in his plea for mercy that his client is a man of God.” The Prosecutor held up one finger. “I will object to relevance. Besides, the Hunchback of Notre Dame was an employee of the church.” He held up a second finger. “He will try to call as fact evidence not introduced in this trial. I will object. That is against the law. The defense had the opportunity to present witnesses to the facts of their case and elected not to do so.

“This case, gentlemen, is to be decided on the facts as presented in this courtroom. It was not a minor tussle as counsel will attempt to paint it. A man died. And justice requires that the person responsible for that death pay the price for their actions. An eye for an eye, members of the jury. That is your only job.

“My purpose in this proceeding is to lay out the facts. The judge’s role is to see to it that we all play by the rules. The defense focus is on getting his client off the hook, so to speak. Yours is justice for the dead victim, who counts on you, and you alone. Thank you.”

Without waiting for the judge to call upon him, Henry jumped from his seat, walking toward the jury box quickly enough to startle those in front.

“Members of the jury, the Prosecutor has it almost right, except for an important factor. And that’s defining your role. See, the police could arrest someone, anyone, for any reason whatsoever, and throw them in jail, toss them in jail and throw away the key. They could do that. Excepting for you. You, gentlemen have a duty to see to it that innocently accused people do not get thrown into jail and the key thrown away.

“Now, who was the victim, we never heard …”

“Objection, Your Honor. Certainly, the defense is not going to attempt to taint the jurors, telling them that the victim deserved to die.”

“Over-ruled. We don’t know what counsel for the defense is going to attempt.”

The Prosecutor sat, his effort to conceal a grin ineffective. Henry dropped the angle he thought to pursue. Anything like pointing out that Mario Colosimo was a Chicago gangster would make the Prosecutor’s point.

Henry continued, “Gentlemen, the prosecutor called the little, one second affair a tussle, which it was. One kick in self-defense, keeping an aggressor at bay.”

“Your Honor,” the Prosecutor said, slowly rising from his seat. “The defense has not established, nor offered one single fact into the record that the fight that the defendant started was in self-defense. Evidence not admitted is my objection.”

“Sustained. Counsel is reminded that closing arguments is not the time to present your case.”

Henry knew that he could not raise a single one of the many points he’d intended regarding Ben’s character: the YMCA, the Salvation Army, the very successful alcoholics program, the mission for homeless men. Henry could not mention the many lives that Ben had affected through his ministry as evidence of Ben’s love for his fellow man.

Henry knew also that the decision not to put Ben on the stand in his own defense was the right decision. Ben would admit to his kick being the first blow. He would not be able to prove that he’d been grabbed, or that his interpretation of a grab was nothing more than people rounding a corner and bumping into one another, a stabilizing automatic reaction.

And without Dr. Philmore, who had told Henry directly to his face that there was no question that the victim suffered sepsis, a serious infection, and was in a serious medical condition well before August thirtieth. Henry was tied into a tight knot, nowhere to go and unable to move.

He thanked the jurors for their attention and dedication to the truth.

Deliberations took twenty-two minutes. Ben was found guilty. The judge wasted no time in pronouncing sentence. Ben was to be transported to the State Prison at San Quentin and there be hung by the neck until dead no later than October 30 at six AM.

+++

“Ben! Great news!” Henry was at the San Francisco jail in the same room where he’d met with Ben to secure his release. “One of the jurors came to my office. He said that one of the jurors was a retired policeman, and that he dominated, intimidated even, compelling the jurors to vote guilty. This guy even felt threatened. I’ll file the appeal today.”

Ben nodded.

At first Henry thought that Ben was in a state of shock at the prospect of being hung. 
“That’s good, Henry. Thank you. Now, like I said, empty my bank account. I don’t think there’s any other way I can pay you except to say that I’ll pray for you every day. Jail is a great place to pray. It’s little wonder why Paul accounted himself as most fortunate.

“Henry, Henry…” Ben waited until he had Henry’s full attention. “Henry, for me to live is Christ. And to die is gain. Henry, read Philippians – all of it, then read it again thinking of me. And read it on the day of my execution. And then rejoice.”

+++

“Benjamin L.  Persons. This is my prison. I’ve heard of you. Knew you’d be coming here. Was talk Governor Bartlett was going to give you a pardon. Too bad your fancy lawyer dragged out the trial. Now your Governor friend is dead.

“Won’t be no street preaching in the cell block or in the yard, either one. I hear of it and you’ll be in solitary until the day you die. Understood?”

Ben looked at the warden and nodded.

“Nothing to say? Now’s your only chance to see me.”

Ben gazed into the warden’s eyes. He recalled distinctly the words that D. L. Moody had unwittingly said.  “Warden, I’m here to bloom.”