LAST OF THE McNAMARAS.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LIV, Issue 195, 15 February 1912, Page 4

LAST OF THE McNAMARAS.

HOW THE BROTHERS RECEIVED THE SENTENCES.

IMPRESSIVE SCENE IN COURT.

Thus C. P. Connolly in Collier's:— On the morning of Tuesday, December 5, which was election day at Los Angeles, a* black throng lined the streets, in anticipation of the march of tne McNamaras across the piazza of the courthouse where the trial had taken place. But the officials, to spare the priadneray and for other reasons, had shifted last Act in this scene to the old Hall of Justice, adjoining the gaol, just a' week by the clock from the hour that Bert Franklin had. been caught in the attempt to bribe the juror Lockwood, the defendants were standing before Judge Bordwell for sentence—the one puny, the other of full habit and handsome, feature—a self-cultured man who fortwo' years had risen every morning at five to perfect himself in the study of the law. As he stood there, but for the obliquy of the occasion, he might have been a tribune about to address thpt august assembly. Had life held in its crucible other fortunes,, he had a mini capable of some'such role. As he steod there, "Labor" might well have placed her shield of wrongs behind him and ftaye * felt a pride in the physical picture of her champion. A solmen hush pervaded the room. Some fashion and a good deal of intellect were there—men prominent in Qalifoinian life, and women graceful and refined* Across the room from him sat his counsel; to his left, ranged along the tablfr, the prosecutors who had marshalled the evidence against the defendants, whose kings, moving out of their row, lad checkmated every play of the defence. Darrow, the deep seams and the palftr of his face betraying the humiliation of kit desolation. Behind him Lincoln Steffens, blanced and worried, suffering the fate of unselfish mediators, in thjit both sides were condemning him. It was tie last scene before oblivion; fit but awful retribution for the past should glow upon Jas. B. McNamara, and shttt Him out for ever from the lives of normal me/i. The quiet tones of the judge and the deep voice of the prosecutor were the only sounds that broke the sihmce. Not a figure in that crowded roam moved save the four actors —the prosecutor, the judge and the prisoners—and then only in' the necessary action of th® drama. The shadows from drawn cuptains fell in color and imagination over the group. Prosecutor Fredericks alone gave a sense of '•reality to the scene.. His voice and manner were matter of fact. James B. McNamara was first sentenced, and, as the last words of the judge fell, a tremor ran through the «lder brother's frame.

Then John J. McNamara rose—in his face no lineament of the criminal, no curl of the lip, no posing for effect. There, awaiting condemnation, he stood, a living silhouette against the jagged lifeless human wall behind him. There were some few commonplaces after th# sentences. The prosecutor nodded to tie sheriff, who in turn beckoned to the tw« brothers. They moved a few feet through the spectators toward the door behind Judge Bordwell's bench. Th» spell lifted and the crowd breathed, again. An evil spirit had been exercised, and the curtain had lowered on the last of the McNamara drama. It was the latest sacrificial offering to the molocih of greed on the one side, and of vengeance and violence on the other.