It was only two hours later that the jurors returned and the judge had Jake brought back into the courtroom. Jake turned to look at Miranda when he reached his chair. She rose and leaned forward, touching his shoulder and kissing his cheek, not caring that others watched and whispered.
“I love you, Father,” Evie told him from where she sat, her eyes puffy from crying.
Jake nodded to her. “I love you too.” He glanced around the room again, and Evie knew he was still watching for Lloyd.
“He’ll come back, Father. He loves you.”
Miranda’s heart ached at the words. Lloyd! Where was their son?
The judge brought the court to order. People waited anxiously, some excitedly, as the foreman of the jury rose and read each charge. “Guilty” of robbery. “Guilty” of murder. On the charge of rape, “guilty.”
Miranda gasped. People mumbled, a few sounded disappointed, others nearly cheered. It took several minutes for the judge to quiet them down. Jake turned to look at Miranda, deep pain in his eyes. If only he could hold her. Whatever the judge handed out to him in punishment, it couldn’t be as bad as losing his son’s love, having his marriage destroyed, knowing his daughter would go out into the world without her father’s protection.
The judge ordered Jake to rise. Jake obeyed, facing the judge squarely. “Do you have anything to say, Mr. Harkner?”
Jake drew in a long, deep breath, suddenly seeing his father. Well? What do you have to say for yourself, you little bastard? Any little thing that went wrong was always his fault. I didn’t do it, Pa. Honest! “I did not commit the crimes for which I was tried here,” he said aloud, “but I rode with the men who did do them, so I suppose I should expect to be judged for that. I can only say that for the last twenty years I tried to make up for it.”
“Mr. Harkner, I have no doubt that part of your guilty verdict was based on the known fact that you did ride with the Kennedy gang,” the judge told him. “We will probably never know the truth about the day of the robbery in which innocent people died and a young woman was ruined for life; but I must tell you that since twelve people feel you were involved, it is my duty to see you get the proper sentencing. However, I also must tell you that there is as much lack of proof in this case as there is proof; twenty years is a long time to remember details amidst such quick violence and shock as those involved suffered that day.” The man glanced at Miranda, who sat wiping at her eyes. “You can thank your lovely, gracious wife for impressing me deeply with her testimony. I might add that your own testimony, the sincerity and love that I have seen you feel for your wife and daughter, shows me that you are indeed a changed man. But, being changed does not erase your past.”
The man cleared his throat and looked at some papers, then back at Jake. “I have given this a lot of consideration. I don’t believe you are any longer a danger to society; however, that same society expects men to pay for their crimes. If they were not made to do so, this land would remain lawless, and we all know that is no longer so. Men like the Youngers, the Daltons, the James gang, are all either dead or in prison. It is true that the terrible war this country suffered had a great deal to do with giving birth to such outlaws, but a man chooses his own way, and he must answer for it. In weighing your punishment, because of your behavior the past twenty years, I am going to be more lenient than I would normally be. The punishment for your crimes would ordinarily be death or life imprisonment. However, in your case I sentence you to fifteen years in prison, with a chance for parole in eight years.”
Jake closed his eyes. He heard Miranda gasp and break into tears. He knew what she was thinking, what he already knew. At his age, living in a prison, the sentence was the same as life. He was used to the out-of-doors, to the sweet mountains and wide valleys of the West, used to riding free on the back of a horse. The arthritis that had set into old wounds would only get worse staying in a small, damp cell where he couldn’t get any exercise. He would not last fifteen years, probably not even eight. He’d been in local jails more than once in his younger days, had known men who’d been to the bigger prisons, knew what hellholes they were. A lot of men died there from tuberculosis.
“I feel this is a lenient sentence,” the judge was saying, “given the severity of the charges. Your final destination will be determined at a later date, but I will request that you be sent to Joliet in Illinois, where I usually send those with long-term sentences. They have better facilities for such prisoners.” The man pounded his gavel. “This ends the matter of the State of Missouri versus Jackson Lloyd Harkner.”