The Atlantic Daily: Dzokhar Tsarnaev Gets the Death Penalty

A federal jury applies six capital counts against the Boston Marathon bomber, a classic piece of fiction from Ken Cosgrove, and more.

Charles Krupa / AP

What's Happening: Dzokhar Tsarnaev Gets the Death Penalty

On Friday, a federal jury in Boston sentenced Dzokhar Tsarnaev to death for his role in the 2013 Boston Marathon bombing. After some 14 hours of deliberation, the jury applied the death penalty to six of Tsarnaev’s 17 capital counts.

A historic decision: Tsarnaev’s punishment will make him the first federal convict to be sentenced to death since Timothy McVeigh. The Oklahoma City bomber was given the death penalty in 1997 and put to death in 2001.

Svengali defense rejected: Tsarnaev’s attorney, Judy Clarke, failed to persuade the jury that her client had fallen under the sway of Tamerlan Tsarnaev, Dzokhar’s older brother, who died in a shootout with police after the attack. Known as the “Svengali defense,” the argument spared Lee Boyd Malvo, the 17-year-old accomplice in the Beltway Sniper Shooting, from the death penalty.


An early morning in Bolivia, from the National Geographic Traveler Photo Contest. See more entries from around the world at The Atlantic Photo. (Hideki Mizuta / National Geographic Traveler Photo Contest)


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1. According to one survey, 76 percent of Americans admit to using ________ at work.

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2. New York City has paid out nearly _____________ in the last decade due to lawsuits over police misconduct.

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3. Around __ people die each day waiting for an organ transplant in America, according to the Organ Procurement and Transplant Network.

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From the Vault

In 1960, Kenneth Cosgrove, an account executive for advertising firm of Sterling Cooper, published his first short story in The Atlantic, “Tapping a Maple on a Cold Vermont Morning”:

The buckets, hooked to his thick belt, jangled as Fitz walked—cliiiiiiiiing,claaaaaaaaang, like the ancient bells whose peals called the people to their gods. The clatter broke the air. We were strangers here, in this flash-frozen forest, human hunter-gatherers in that most foreign of lands: one not of our own making. The still-chilled air stung my face and pierced my lungs. I found myself, gradually and then suddenly, wishing for a cigarette to warm the walk—something to heat and soothe. Something toasted. There are few things as smooth, I couldn’t help but remember, as a Lucky Strike.


Missing helicopter found, Mexican farm wages boosted, Burundi coup fails, blues legend passes on, honeybee die-off continues, and brick of sea weed washes up.

Answers: Emojis, $1 billion, 21