Judge Ingraham finishes at half past two in the afternoon of July 13. The jurors file out and begin their deliberations. An hour passes, then another. At a few minutes before five, they return to the courtroom to ask the judge to define “premeditation.” He does so and they retire once more. At seven Ingraham recalls them to the courtroom and asks whether they have reached a verdict. Their foreman says they have not. The judge orders them sequestered for the night. He sends Stokes back to the Tombs. The bailiff clears the courtroom.
The next day is Sunday, when New York’s courts are supposed to rest. But there is no rest in this case. The Sunday papers are filled with the latest accounts from the courtroom, and the state legislature has approved a special statute allowing Judge Ingraham to declare Sunday’s meeting of the court an extension of Saturday’s session.
The spectators line up early to learn Stokes’s fate. Perhaps because his recent testimony has reminded the city of his attractiveness to the opposite sex, perhaps because Josie’s appearance has touched a feminine nerve, the crowd today is mostly women. Along with the men in the crowd, they have neglected church in favor of the criminal court. Women and men alike try to ignore the rising heat of the midsummer morning.
The ladies are admitted to the courtroom first; after they have entered, the few remaining seats are allowed to the men. Those persons denied admission mill around outside the court, growing hotter by the minute but assuming that the news of the verdict will be swiftly relayed from inside. Speculation is rampant regarding the jury’s decision; fittingly, for a case involving Fisk, wagers are exchanged.
Ingraham enters the courtroom as the clock chimes eleven. Stokes is brought in after the judge sits down. The prisoner is pale and drawn; as he sinks into his seat a heavy breath escapes his lips.
The judge summons the jurors; the bailiff guides them to their box. The audience examines the jurors, trying to determine whether they have reached a verdict and what it might be. Stokes alone refuses to look toward the jury. He fixes his gaze on the table in front of him.
The judge asks the foreman if the jurors have reached a conclusion. The foreman says they have not.
Stokes looks up and toward the jury. The beginning of a smile flits across his face.
The foreman adds, “There is no probability that we can agree, not the least chance. We stand exactly where we stood last night.”
Stokes’s smile broadens.
Judge Ingraham shakes his head. “I hardly feel at liberty to discharge you yet. This case has lasted nearly three weeks, and it would not be proper to let you go without giving this case further consideration.” He orders the jury to retire once more.
The spectators shift in their seats and mutter among themselves, but few leave. Those outside the court, where a slight motion of the summer air moderates the heat, begin to think they were lucky not to get in.
The clock on the courtroom wall ticks slowly. Noon comes and goes. The heat continues to mount. Few in the room want to leave and risk missing the most exciting verdict in New York in decades. But the afternoon heat, the spectators’ growing fatigue, and eventually their hunger gradually diminish their ranks. Late in the day word spreads that Judge Ingraham has gone home to his house in Harlem. Calculating that under the best of circumstances news that the jury has come to a verdict will take an hour to reach him and he will require another hour to return, the remaining spectators conclude that he won’t be back this evening, and they go home, too.