The news of Stokes’s conviction races ahead of him along Centre Street as he is walked back to the Tombs. His fellow prisoners fall silent when he passes their cells. The petty offenders observe him with indifference, but several prisoners held on murder charges appear deeply worried. Conventional wisdom among the malefactors of the city is that a New York jury can never agree on a charge as serious as murder. The counterexample of Stokes gives them sobering pause.
He falls asleep quickly in his private cell and is allowed to slumber the next morning till nine. He washes, eats breakfast, and is readied for the return to the courtroom for sentencing.
The crowds outside the court are larger than ever. They have trampled the wet snow in City Hall Park and made the lawn a morass. They discover that entry into the courtroom is hopeless, as elected and appointed officials of the city and county have claimed all the available seats for themselves and their friends. But hundreds cram into the hallways and vestibules, to be out of the snow and somewhat closer to the events.
Stokes enters at half past ten, better dressed than he has been during the argument phase of the trial. A blue overcoat covers a dark suit; black kid gloves encase his hands. He struggles to hide any emotion; he is steeling himself for the worst.
But his brother, who stands beside him, lacks comparable control. Dressed in black, as if already in mourning, he weeps as if at his brother’s funeral. The audience looks on and whispers in amazement.
The entry of Judge Boardman silences the room. The prisoner is asked to stand. “Edward S. Stokes,” the clerk inquires, “what have you to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon you?”
Stokes answers clearly and deliberately: “I can only say that I am innocent of the crime of which I now stand convicted. I did not intentionally violate any laws of the land.” He looks around the court. “I know that all the testimony that was given for the defense was viewed lightly by the jury. I feel convinced of that. I know that public clamor has been aroused against me from the frequent murders in New York City. I know that the evidence of Thomas Hart”—the doorman at the Grand Central Hotel—“upon which I have been convicted, is false from beginning to end. I believe that the prosecution knew it.” He speaks directly to the judge: “That is all I have to say. I hope you will make the sentence as brief as possible.”
He turns to sit down, but Tremain touches his elbow to let him know he must continue to stand. Briefly embarrassed, he faces the bench once more.
Judge Boardman looks out on the crowd, the representatives of the people of New York, and then at the prisoner. “You have been defended by the most eminent counsel with extraordinary skill and devotion,” the judge says. “You have been supported and sustained by the sympathy of loving relatives and ardent friends. All that wealth, affection, or industry could render has been cheerfully and well done. A jury, carefully selected, of intelligent and upright gentlemen, have listened patiently and kindly to your own account of this most terrible act, as well as to the other evidence that has been put in in your behalf. They have found you guilty of murder in the first degree—the highest crime known in our law—in having caused the death of James Fisk, Jr., one year ago today.”
The judge says he concurs in the decision of the jury. He asserts that he has made no errors that he is aware of in determining the admissibility of evidence. He states that he has given the prisoner the benefit of the doubt at every turn of the trial.
One responsibility is left for him to fulfill. “To me remains the painful duty of pronouncing the judgment of the law, not alone as a punishment of your crime, but also that, by your example, others may take warning. I am sad over your unhappy fate—so young, so attractive in person, with so many fountains of joy yet untasted. Still greater is my sorrow to realize the unmerited anguish you have brought upon your family and friends. It is a frightful legacy to leave to a family—a specter that death alone can banish.”
The judge speaks very slowly now. “Edward S. Stokes, in obedience to the requirements of the law, this court orders and directs that you be taken hence in the custody of the sheriff of the City and County of New York to the prison from whence you came; that you be there confined in close custody by said sheriff until the 28th day of February, 1873, and that on that day, between the hours of eleven o’clock in the morning and three o’clock in the afternoon, you be hanged by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul.”