University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XVII.

VERDICT—SENTENCE.

When J. Samuel McCue reached the court green on the morning of
November 5th, the day on which his doom was pronounced by the unanimous
vote of twelve of his peers, he was met by a number of ladies and
gentlemen, who shook hands with him quite cordially. He kissed one
of the ladies twice or thrice. His manner was calm, as it was on most
occasions. It mattered not what his frame of mind—whether that of
the religious enthusiast or the hunted man facing his pursuers—he was
always deliberate, and made upon others the impression of nervous
force and calm.

In spite of the fact that this was to be probably the last day of the
trial, the seats behind the bar were not so crowded as on the previous
day, when even the lawyers interested in the case were inconvenienced.
Perhaps many of the prisoner's relatives and friends felt unable to bear
the strain. But faithful Mrs. Dinwiddie was prompt to arrive, as were
also Mrs. R. D. Anderson and the ex-Mayor's sister-in-law, Mrs. E. O.
McCue.

Grimly hovering always on the fringe of the crowd or sitting in the
rear seats of the space reserved for the bar, were Ernest Crawford and
another brother of the murdered woman. A stern but orderly pair were
these two young men. They wanted the law to hang McCue, but there
was naught but calm determination on the faces of the Crawfords. They
were biding their time.

When Mr. Gilmer had ended his speech and the jury had retired to
the little front room on the second floor of the courthouse to deliberate,
the eyes of all were drawn to the pathetic group—the prisoner and his
little family—over whom there was a terrible cloud, growing darker and
darker as the slow moments went by.

Willie McCue, who had done so much to save his father, was the oldest
of the children, and he scarcely seventeen, but wonderfully mature
for such tender years. Ruby McCue, not more than thirteen, a slight-figured,
sensitive-looking girl, sat near her father, terribly conscious of
the awful significance of the scene, and in racking, nervous suspense.

Samuel O. gave no sign. The tender years of little Harry shielded him
from very deep suffering. He probably did not know what it was all
about.

As the moments went by not a few, if not most, of those who in tense
suspense awaited the announcement of doom, wondered if somebody—
father, aunt, lawyer, somebody—would not see that the children were
sent out of the court-room to escape a most painful and trying experience.
McCue seemed utterly oblivious to the agony that would possibly
be inflicted on his offsprings, especially on his sensitive little daughter.
He fingered his testament, from which he read a verse to the constable
who sat at his elbow; he spoke to his aunt or moved restlessly in his
chair—but still the children remained.

It is said he was the man of iron, unmoved, full of nerve and fight,
while the jurors were framing their verdict, and, as it transpired, praying
in the jury room, but those who looked closely saw more than one
evidence of agony of suspense. The man who had said he wanted to be
convicted or fully vindicated was hoping against despair that the jury
would bring in a verdict of less than the first degree.

The less than twenty minutes which the jury required to take its one
ballot and to write out the formal announcement of the prisoner's doom
seemed a much longer period to those who sat in silence in the crowded
room. Court, lawyers, and spectators felt that they were awaiting something
as serious as death—a decree as merciless as justice, as certain
in its results as natural law.

Ruby McCue was in tears, as were others of those who sat near the
doomed man. Father and eldest son were outwardly almost calm.

The jury filed in, while the nervous and intense suspense of the people
grew more and more apparent, although no one spoke. During a
tense three minutes the usual formalities were observed, and the foreman
announced the verdict: "We, the jury, find the defendant guilty as
charged in the indictment, of murder in the first degree." A paper on
which this terrible sentence was written was passed to the clerk, Richard
W. Duke, grayer than his years warrant, and was read by him in a
low voice, affected by his sense of the awfulness of it all—read to the
ex-Mayor, ex-lawyer, ex-deacon, standing as straight as an Indian. He
did not become hysterical or show any violent emotions, but he was
not unmoved, whatever descriptive writers may say in their vivid way.
He was not conscious of the bright sunshine which filtered through the
dusty panes of the windows; it was all cloud. The winds were still,
but there was a storm within, unseen but felt.

He sat down with the same appearance of calm and indifference, while
his female relatives bowed their heads and wept in their handkerchiefs,
but when the little girl, whose very presence was the result of a cruel
thoughtlessness, put her delicate little face against his and stained his

GEORGE WATTS MORRIS,
Judge Corporation Court of Charlottesville.

cheek with the hot tears that wet her own, the iron restraint gave way,
and the eyes that the jury had in effect declared had looked unrelentingly
into the pleading ones of his wife filled with tears.

Willie McCue, who has fought the battle of his life to save his father
from the gallows and lost, trembled for a moment like a leaf shaken by
the wind and then the pent-up grief burst its bounds and he buried his
face in his hands and sobbed.

Mrs. Dinwiddie, Mrs. Durrette, and Mrs. Edward O. McCue cried in
sympathy. The brothers of the prisoner stood silently and with strained
faces and tearless eyes, gazing at vacancy. Nearly every man on the
jury was weeping.

There was no longer suspense, but an awful certainty, if the verdict
of the jury was followed by the sentence of the court. Mr. Lee at last
got to his feet and asked permission for the lawyers for the defense to
retire for a consultation of half an hour. This was granted, and these
gentlemen, together with E. O. McCue, a brother of the accused, withdrew
from the court-room. Judge Morris considerately gave the jury
permission to retire from the building, but requested them to remain
within call.

It was a half hour of untold misery for all who remained; and,
strange to say, in spite of the painful situation, few withdrew. It was
a fascinating, if painful, scene, and if there was more of the drama to
come no one seemed willing to miss even the smallest detail.

The silence was awful and unbroken, except for the weeping of the
prisoner's relatives within the bar, who awaited the return of the lawyers
and the next move of the actors. The prisoner read his Bible occasionally
and often caressed his children.

A few minutes past noon the lawyers returned to court and moved to
set aside the verdict on various grounds, and asked the court to set a
time to hear argument on the motion. The 9th day of November was
agreed upon, and court adjourned to that day.

Then McCue arose to leave the room for his quarters in the city jail.
The parting with his relatives had the appearance of a final farewell.
They wept, and throughout the crowded room there were others whose
tears flowed, not in sympathy for the criminal, but as a manifestation
of the divine emotion of pity. Only one man, however, expressed his
pity in another way. This was John A. Traylor, a Richmond juror, who
went forward, shook hands with the relatives, and then offered his hand
to the man whom he had just voted to hang. McCue took it and said:

"You have done me a great injustice."

"That rested with you," answered Mr. Traylor. "I did my duty as I
saw it."

On the outside in the court yard a large throng lined up on each side
of the way to the jail to see the little procession pass. There was no

sound or sign of approval or disapproval; simply silence and alert attention.
The sad procession was led by the Rev. Dr. George L. Petrie,
the prisoner's pastor, who had awaited him at the side door of the courtroom.
With the condemned man were Sergeant C. W. Rogers, several
policemen, three of the McCue brothers, W. O. Durrette, a cousin, and
William and Harry McCue. They passed through the crowd of thoroughly
awed people, McCue moving with a lagging step.

It was a pitiful request the condemned man made of the City Sergeant
when he asked that his little boy Harry might be allowed to go
into his cell with him.

"Would to God I could grant your request," said the City Sergeant,
"but I cannot. I must refuse you."

The prisoner's eyes moistened; that was all. He shook hands with
his friends and over and over kissed little Harry and William. A
minute later he passed through the door of the stone bastile and was
alone in his cell.

The prisoner again emerged from the jail on the 9th day of November,
the day on which the motion of his counsel for a new trial was considered
by the court. The courthouse was packed as usual. The lawyers
for the prisoner came in early, bearing files of newspapers and many
law books. The lawyers for the State were promptly on hand.

The ex-Mayor entered in the custody of Jailor J. J. Thomas and several
policemen. He looked serious, and did not kiss his relatives and
friends as he had done during the long days of his trial.

After the court had been in session some time, Mrs. Marshall Dinwiddie,
Mrs. E. O. McCue, Mrs. R. D. Anderson, and little Ruby McCue
arrived and took their seats behind the bar near the prisoner. The little
girl kissed her father. This was the first kiss the ex-Mayor had received
that day.

The defense put two of the deputies who had been in charge of the
jury on the stand to testify as to the reading of newspapers, submitted
files of the newspapers the jurors were said to have access to, and
asked that a new trial be awarded. The court refused the application.

The decision to refuse another trial put an end to all hope of a judicial
interference with the verdict unless the Supreme Court shall grant
a writ of error.

The ladies, knowing what was inevitable, withdrew, and one of the
counsel for the defense, prompted by merciful and pitying sentiment,
arranged for the withdrawal of the children before the painful scene
soon to be enacted.

A profound silence settled over the mise-en-scene—a silence that was
awful.

"J. Samuel McCue, stand up," said Judge Morris in a voice that trembled.
"Have you anything to say why the court should not now proceed
to pass sentence upon you."

The prisoner stood up, very pale. His eyes filled with tears.

"Yes, sir." His voice quivered or trembled, and it was low. "I have
to say that I am as thoroughly innocent of this offence as any other
man in this courthouse, and that I hope some day I will have an opportunity
to vindicate my innocence."

Judge Morris continued: "The point of your guilt or innocence is a
matter that was left to the jury. This court, thank God, did not have to
pass upon it. The jury have decided after fair and impartial trial
that you are guilty of the offence, and it only remains for me to pass
the sentence of the law, which is that you be taken to the county jail
of Albemarle county, which is also used as the city jail of Charlottesville,
and therein remain in solitary confinement until the 20th day of
January next; that on that day, between the hours of sunrise and sunset,
you be taken from your place of confinement to some place within
the enclosure of the said jail and there be hanged by your neck until
you are dead. And may God have mercy on your soul."

It was about 12:45 when sentence was passed, and court adjourned a
few minutes later. When Judge Morris descended from the bench the
prisoner accosted him and petitionel for more liberty at the jail, saying
that it was an awful place, and that he had not been used to that sort
of thing. He wanted to be permitted to take more exercise in the jail
yard. The Judge said that he would be as lenient as the law allowed.
"But," he added, "you know the law." Then, extending his hand, he
said: "I want to shake hands with you for the first time and say how
deeply I regret this whole thing."

The prisoner was then returned to jail to await, in the harrowing
suspense with which he has now become familiar, the result of the
efforts of his lawyers before the Supreme Court of Virginia.