with Florence beside him had driven to Cole- man barracks. Calling Lawson out he de- manded where his son was. “Lawson said he didn’t know,” Scott read. “Then Pic said “You're going with me to find him—you shot him.’ Lawson said ‘What of it?’ Then I heard two shots. One grazed my leg and the other broke the wind- shield. Pic was struggling with Lawson so he couldn’t have fired them. Then I guess I got scared and must've started shooting. I fired a couple of shots in the air, but some- one else shot Lawson.’ Scott surveyed the court. “It was her own bullets, not those of Lawson or anyone else, that smashed the windshield and speedo- meter,” he stated. “I traced the lines of trajectory. The bullets could only have come from a person seated inside the car on the far side of the front seat. And,” he paused. “the empty shells found at the murder spot were identical with those I discovered in Florence Lassandrea’s bedroom. When Law- son was shot even his tunic was in the bar- racks and his revolver hanging in the ofice— empty!” T. F. Brown of Blairmore next deposed that on the evening of the murder he had met Pic in a state of great excitement and her guards and preened herself like a canary in a cage. For the first time Emperor Pic discovered that his money was no longer able to extri- cate him from the toils. Meanwhile belief in her immunity from the gallows had brought the germ of an idea to Florence. If she confessed to the accidental shooting of Law- son, and admitted Pic’s complete innocence, he’d be released—free to exert his wealth and political connections to free her too. Buoyed up by this conviction she signed a confession and smilingly awaited word of Pic’s release. But the days slipped by till the shadow of the noose was only a short week away. Then came word that an appeal had been granted. Florence was radiant and exultant. Her plan had worked. But soaring hopes were rudely shattered when a granite- faced Judge listened grimly and without sympathy, and confirmed the death sentences on the ground that both were in the murder car and equally involved. But hope still burned in Florence’s breast. Still she clung to the assurances of lawyers, wardens and friends that there would be a last minute reprieve. It was a view shared by the general public who had a feeling that the girl had made a sporting attempt to sacri- Fort Saskatchewan, where the last act in the drama of the Crows’ Nest Murder was enacted. heard him swear “If any constable has shot my boy I'll kill him tonight, by God!” Then Pic had kissed his gun, climbed into his car and drove off towards Coleman. SENTENCED TO HANG ' A solemn hush pervaded the courtroom as the jury filed back on the ninth day and delivered their verdict—guilty! Like the breath of doom came the Judge’s words sen- tencing Pic and his daughter to be hanged at Fort Saskatchewan on February 21st. With a heart-rending moan Florence col- lapsed weakly while Emperor Pic was led away with unseeing eyes and stumbling feet. As the bleak winter days sped by Picarello fought desperately to establish his innocence. Taking comfort in the assurance that it was an unwritten law in Canada that no woman should be hanged, and that a quarter of a century had elapsed since a woman had gone to the scaffold, Florence laughed, joked with WINTER EDITION fice herself to save her father, and some- where along the line she’d been double- crossed. Throughout the West women’s organizations bombarded the Minister of Justice with petitions and pleas for a re- prieve. Yet May Ist broke with the shadow of the gallows only twenty-fours hours away and still no word of hoped-for clemency. Behind the grilled bars Florence ceased to smile. Like a frightened child she appealed to the warden. “I didn’t do it,” she moaned. “T said I did it to save Pic,” she wrung her hands hysterically. ‘Pic lied and lied,” she cried. “He said they’d never hang me He did it,” her voice rose to a hysterical falsetto. “Give me back that confession I signed. I want to take it back.” “Too late!” the warden told her. A Last FRANTIC PLEA A frightened chill shook her as she heard the ominous thud of carpenter’s hammets. With streaming eyes she sent for the police matron. “You can’t hang me,” she cried. “You'll be destroying two lives instead of one.” But a grey-faced doctor failed to find medical evidence to support the girl’s last frantic plea. As night fell, and prison lights flickered under the rain that beat a dismal tattoo against the barred windows of the death- cells Father Fidelis moved on sandalled feet twixt father and daughter. At every noise the girl started. The reprieve at last! 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