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61 What Herbert Niccolls Jr. had that most other juvenile offenders of any era did not was a powerful advocate with a national platform, who unequivocally believed in the boy’s potential for good despite the crime he’d committed. Although Father E. J. Flanagan never met Niccolls, he was convinced that “there is no such thing as a bad boy,” and that included young murderers. Flanagan was at Mercy Hospital in Denver, October 29, 1931, when he read the newspaper account about Niccolls being accused of murder and facing life in prison. He considered the notion barbaric. Although he had been urged to rest, he could not be idle any longer. Not only did the boys at his farm need him, so did Herbert Niccolls. Flanagan summoned a nurse to take a telegram. To Mr. J. C. Applewhite and Mr. E. J. Doyle: Have read convicting of 12-year-old murderer and his probable commitment to penitentiary for life. Judging from background, I feel this boy has never had a chance. Chapter 8 62 Would you ask the court that this boy be given such a chance now? I will take him to my home and be responsible for him. Have cared for three thousand neglected and homeless boys during past fourteen years. My home is at Omaha, Nebraska, known as Father Flanagan’s Boys Home. Answer me here, Mercy Hospital. Flanagan had read all about the boy’s life, from the thefts to the murder . For days it had been on the front page of the Denver Post, but only today he had read with shock of the boy’s conviction. Now, he would have to pray and wait. • It was nearly over and Bezona, for one, was very glad. Maybe then the town could get back to normal. Not that it would ever be the same without Johnny. Annie and the other Wormells had not attended the trial or spoken on the issue. And as for the crowd gathered in the courthouse, he regarded them as curiosity seekers. Anyone who knew Johnny felt no sympathy for the boy. John Wormell had been a wise and good leader, beloved by many. As the boy entered the courthouse, Hostetler pushed his way through the crowd, carrying a gray kitten. The boy cried out in delight, and Hostetler set the kitten on the floor. When the boy called to it, it promptly leaped onto his shoulder. The boy nuzzled it and stroked it, and the kitten curled around his neck. Who would take care of it when he was gone? “Stand up, Herbert,” Judge Kuykendall said, and the boy slowly rose. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” “No, sir,” he said. The judge then read the sentence: life in prison. The jury had swiftly made the decision, calling only once for a ballot. It really mattered little to the boy. He was, as always, detached from the reality of his future. McGrath and the NEA Service reporter Sherman Mitchell were among the reporters in the crowd shouting questions. “He’s a boy who wanted much but had little,” a court attaché told Mitchell. “From infancy he was under-nourished. He craves food and Chapter 8 63 tobacco. He doesn’t hesitate to steal if he can’t get something by honest means. He lies when it’s convenient. His case is typical of a shattered home, diseased mind, and poverty.” “Junior!” a reporter called. “What do you think of the sentence?” “I’m glad they didn’t send me to an insane asylum, for even smart men go nuts in a madhouse,” he told the reporter. Then through the open door of the court, he saw Murphy and Jean and he ran outside and hugged them. “We wanted to say good-bye,” Murphy said. Junior apologized for getting Murphy’s grandfather in trouble. Murphy muttered his reply and handed him a present: his best aggie shooter. It was blue like a souvenir from picnic‑day skies. During the 105-mile journey to the prison in the city of Walla Walla, the boy kept it in his pocket—a fragment of his childhood. • In his hospital bed, Flanagan watched the clock. On the West Coast it would be one hour earlier but surely by now the telegraph had been received. He heard footsteps and then his nurse stepped into the room, a telegram in her hand. Her face was solemn as she handed it to him. It was too...

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