The day of the hanging. His family had always conceded that, but they insisted that he could not possibly remember the events of that day. He had been a babe in arms, not even a year old. Whenever he asked about it, they would flip through the thick black pages of the pasteboard family album and point to the sepia snapshot of him cradled in his mother’s arms, peering out of the patchwork baby quilt with an infant’s frozen stare. September 13, 1916. He had been born the previous December, surely too young for the event to have registered in his mind. Perhaps he had imagined the memory from hearing about it later. Growing up, he had heard the tale often enough from his young uncles, who had worked in the railroad yard as his father did. They had all been there, hooting and hollering, jostling the crowd for a better view, and one of them had brought his black box Kodak Brownie, and it was he who snapped the family photos of the occasion: carefully posed shots of the Jennings brothers, bunched together and smiling, and one of a solemn teenaged sister-in-law holding baby Carl, and looking uneasy to be in the raucous crowd.
What do You think about The Devil Amongst The Lawyers?
