It worked like a charm. The judge’s charge to the jury was a marvel of controlled indignation; they must find the woman guilty but unless they added a recommendation of clemency his faith in mankind would be shattered. And of course they did so, and the judge gave her a sentence which, with good conduct, would not be more than two or three years. I suppose the poor soul ate better and slept better in the penitentiary than she had ever done in her life.

“That was a smart bit of business,” said Diarmuid to me afterward, “and I don’t know how you guessed what the trouble was. But you did, and that’s what matters. B’God, I think old Mickley would have hung the corpse, if it’d had a scrap of neck left to put in a rope.”

This case gained me a disproportionate reputation as a brilliant young advocate filled with compassion for the wretched. The result was that a terrible band of scoundrels who thought themselves misunderstood or ill used shouted for my services when they got into well-deserved trouble. And thus I gained my first client to go to the gallows.

Up to this time I had delighted unashamedly in the law. Many lawyers do, and Diarmuid was one of them. “If lawyers allowed their sense of humour free play, b’God they wouldn’t be able to work for laughing,” he once said to me. But the trial and hanging of Jimmy Veale showed me another aspect of the law. What I suppose Dr von Haller would call its Shadow.

Not that Jimmy didn’t have a fair trial. Not that I didn’t exert myself to the full on his behalf. But his guilt was clear, and all I could do was try to find explanations for what he had done, and try to arouse pity for a man who had no pity for anyone else.

Jimmy had a bad reputation and had twice been in jail for petty thievery. He was only twenty-two, but he was a thorough-going crook of an unsophisticated kind. When I met him the provincial police had run him down, hiding in the woods about thirty miles north of Pittstown, with sixty-five dollars in his pocket. He had entered the house of an old woman who lived alone in a rural area, demanded her money, and when she would not yield he sat her on her own stove to make her talk. Which she did, of course, but when Jimmy found the money and left, she appeared to be dead. However, she was not quite dead, and when a neighbour found her in the morning she lived long enough to describe Jimmy and assure the neighbour that he had repeatedly sworn that he would kill her if she didn’t speak up. In this evidence the neighbour was not to be shaken.

Jimmy’s mother, who thought him wild but not bad, engaged me to defend him, and I did what I could by pleading insanity. It is a widespread idea that people who are unusually cruel must be insane, though the corollary of that would be that anybody who is unusually compassionate must be insane. But the Crown Attorney applied the McNaghten Rule to Jimmy, and I well recall the moment when he said to the jury, “Would the prisoner have acted as he did if a policeman had been standing at his elbow?” Jimmy, lounging in the prisoner’s dock, laughed and cried out, “Jeeze, d’you think I’m crazy?” After which it did not take the court long to send him to the gallows.