"Granted."
Chandler sat unable to move, watching the brief, stormy conference.
It was painful to be coming back to life. It was agony to hope. At
least, he thought detachedly, his lawyer was fighting for him; the
prosecutor's face was a thundercloud.
The lawyer came back, with the expression of a man who has won a
victory he did not expect, and did not want. "Your last chance,
Chandler. Change your plea to guilty."
"But--"
"Don't push your luck, boy! The judge has agreed to accept a plea.
They'll throw you out of town, of course. But you'll be alive."
Chandler hesitated. "Make up your mind! The best I can do otherwise is
a mistrial, and that means you'll get convicted by another jury next
week."
Chandler said, testing his luck: "You're sure they'll keep their end of
the bargain?"
The lawyer shook his head, his expression that of a man who smells
something unpleasant. "Your honor! I ask you to discharge the jury. My
client wishes to change his plea."
... In the school's chemistry lab, an hour later, Chandler discovered
that the lawyer had left out one little detail. Outside there was a
sound of motors idling, the police car that would dump him at the
town's limits; inside was a thin, hollow hiss. It was the sound of a
Bunsen burner, and in its blue flame a crudely shaped iron changed
slowly from cherry to orange to glowing straw. It had the shape of a
letter "H".
"H" for "hoaxer." The mark they were about to put on his forehead would
be with him wherever he went and as long as he lived, which would
probably not be long. "H" for "hoaxer," so that a glance would show
that he had been convicted of the worst offense of all.
No one spoke to him as the sheriff's man took the iron out of the fire,
but three husky policemen held his arms while he screamed.