Criminal Intent

Chapter 1

“Father forgive me for I have sinned.

“Father forgive me for I have sinned.

“Father forgive me for I have-”

Helen’s voice broke off. She was breathless. She had murmured the words a hundred times, a thousand perhaps. But it didn’t seem to help. Nothing seemed to help.

She was on her knees in the church prayer garden, surrounded by birch trees and flowering plants and multicolored azaleas, a Garden of Eden recreated. Was she Adam, the one who submits to temptation and therefore must be cast out? Or was she Eve, the temptress who leads others to sin and degradation?

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…”

Her hands were folded and her head was bowed. She was saying the words, chanting them like some arcane ritual. But who was listening? Who would hear the prayers of a woman who had done what she had done?

Had done and been doing for years, she thought, and the sickness took hold of her, sending waves of nausea throughout her body. She doubled over in agony.

At first, what they did had not bothered her. Or perhaps it had, but somehow she managed to suppress the guilt, to bury her true feelings in a morass of rationalization and intellectual posturing. And then one morning, not long ago, she awoke and realized-she was a sinner. A pawn of Satan. What she had done-what they all had done-was worse than mere sin. It was complete and utter corruption. Moral bankruptcy.

It was evil.

“Father forgive me for I have sinned.

“Father forgive me for I have sinned.

“Father forgive me for I have sinned.”

She recited the words over and over again, but she obtained no comfort from them. She glared up at the ebony sky, but she found no answer, no release. What was she going to do now? She had gathered some of the others, had talked to them about it. Some had even admitted they shared her feelings. But it wasn’t enough. Talking would never be enough. Action was required. She had to do something.

She heard a noise behind her, from somewhere deeper in the prayer garden. The door at the base of the bell tower was closing. But who would be in there at this time of night? Was it the priest? One of the church regulars? An irrational fear gripped her. She didn’t want to be seen, not in here, not now, not like this.

“What are you doing?”

She let out a small sigh of relief when she saw who it was. Nothing to worry about there. “I’m just… having a quiet moment. Spending some time alone. If you wouldn’t mind…”

“Could you please help me?”

Helen tried not to frown. This was one of the inescapable realities of being in a church-there was always someone who needed help. An old woman wanting someone to run after her groceries. An Altar Guild guy recruiting help with the cleanup. And it always seemed to come at the least convenient time. “I don’t know…”

“Please. I really really really need your help.”

“What is it?”

“I saw something in the garden, near the base of the tower. Something strange and… frightening.”

Helen pushed herself to her feet. “Show me.”

She followed down the cobbled sidewalk toward the bell tower, in one of the most isolated and secluded parts of the labyrinthine prayer garden. There were two marble benches flanking a small recess planted with honeysuckle and flowered hedges. Many of the parishioners had buried the ashes of loved ones here; a tall marble obelisk behind one of the benches stood as a memorial.

“So?…”

“Over there. By the bench.”

Helen looked in the direction indicated. Someone had been digging. Signs of excavation were evident; an azalea bush had been all but uprooted.

“My God,” Helen whispered. Had someone been digging up… one of the graves? She had been at the funeral last week, and she knew this was where Ruth’s sister’s ashes had been buried. “Why would anyone-?” Helen’s eyes widened with repugnance and amazement. “You?”

She turned just in time to see the shovel right before it struck. It hit her on the side of the head, knocking her sideways. The pain was excruciating. She felt as if her brain had been dislodged, her jaw shattered. Her legs crumbled, and she fell down onto one of the benches.

She remained conscious, but just barely. She watched as the shovel came closer, then closer, then closer still.

“But… why?” Helen managed to gasp.

“Why not?”

Her assailant’s hands clutched her throat with a strong, unbreakable grip. Helen felt her consciousness fading, and she knew that in a few short moments she would be dead. Was this the penance she had been seeking? Was this what it took to make her feel clean again? Her brain was too muddled to make any sense of it. As she felt her life slowly trickling away, her thoughts were not focused on these questions of theology and personal redemption. As she stared into the face of her killer, all she could think was:

I can’t believe it’s you! I can’t believe it could possibly be you!

Chapter 2

“Mr. Kincaid, please direct your witness to take the stand.”

“Sir, my client is on trial. He can’t be compelled to testify. The Fifth Amendment-”

“Has absolutely no force or effect here. Please call your client to the stand.”

“But sir, it’s a fundamental principle of the United States Constitution-”

“The Constitution is not relevant.”

“Sir, the Constitution is always relevant. It’s the fundamental guarantee-”

“Not today it isn’t. Now call your witness.”

“Sir, the protection against self-incrimination-”

“Does not exist in this court. Mr. Kincaid, as I think you already know, this tribunal is governed by canonical law, not the United States Constitution. Now please send your client to the stand without any further delay.”

Ben Kincaid closed his eyes, trying to mentally regroup. How did he get himself into these situations? After years of practicing law, he had finally managed to achieve some degree of competence in Tulsa ’s criminal courts. So what on earth was he doing at an ecclesiastical trial conducted under the auspices of the Episcopal Church of the Diocese of Oklahoma?

Losing, that’s what he was doing.

Father Holbrook leaned forward, crinkling the flaps of his black robe. “Again, Mr. Kincaid, I must ask you to call your client to the stand.”

Holbrook was an Oklahoma City priest who had been appointed to preside over the trial as judge. Fortunately, he had some legal experience; even though the Constitution was not the controlling law, the Federal Rules of Evidence were followed. The jurors were clergy and lay people elected at the annual diocesan convention.

“And again, sir-” Ben couldn’t bring himself to call the man your honor, even though he was, technically speaking, a judge. “-I must insist-”

Ben felt a tugging at his arm. “It’s all right. I’ll go.”

Ben peered down at the gray-bearded face of his client-and priest-Father Daniel Beale. “I don’t think that’s wise. Do you know what could happen to you up there?”

“Of course I do.” There was a small but discernible tremble in his voice. Though he was in his mid-fifties, at the moment, he looked much older. “But the judge carries the weight of canonical authority, and he has called me to speak. I must comply.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“The whole reason I submitted to this process was to clear my name. I can’t very well do that by refusing to take the stand.”

“But you don’t know what will happen. I don’t know what will happen.”

“Then I’ll just have to have faith.”

Ben held him back. “Father, if you go up there, I can’t promise you a good result.”

A slight smile crossed the priest’s lips. “Ben, you’re a fine lawyer, but when I spoke about having faith, I wasn’t talking about you.”

Ben started to protest, but Beale was already on his feet and heading toward the folding chair at the right hand of the dais of adjudicators.

While Beale was sworn in, Ben’s partner, Christina McCall, leaned across the defense table. “Isn’t there anything we can do about this?” she whispered.

“You’re the legal scholar. You tell me. Haven’t you been reading up on the Episcopal Constitution and Canons?”

Christina brushed her flowing mane of strawberry blond hair behind her shoulders. “Yes, but for all its two hundred and eighteen pages, it doesn’t say all that much. Compared to the rules and regulations governing federal courts, it’s nothing. I think it’s intended to leave the presiding judge great discretion. Here in the ecclesiastical courts, the judge can do pretty much whatever he wants. And usually does. Folie de grandeur.”

“Which means Beale is going on the stand, whether we like it or not.”

“Think he’ll hold up?”

Ben shrugged. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

Christina arched an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to say a prayer?”

Beale lowered himself into a chair that was obviously too small for him, adding to his already evident discomfort. Father Holbrook was just to his left; flanking him on the other side were the stenographer, the jurors, and the Canon of the Ordinary, otherwise known as the bishop’s assistant, Harold Payne.

Father Beale seemed worried, and with good reason. A man of God since he was twenty-two, it must have been an unprecedented shock to Beale’s system to find himself sitting before a bishopric tribunal on the charge of Conduct Unbecoming a Priest. The evidence that had been adduced already by previous witnesses was substantial and, at times, shocking: Malice toward parishioners. Public denial of the virgin birth. Questioning whether Jesus rose from the dead. Allowing radical political groups to meet at the church.

And there was another memorable allegation of Beale’s conduct unbecoming a priest. Murder.

“When did you last see Helen Conrad?” Father Fleming asked. Fleming was a stout, basso profundo lawyer-priest from Kansas City who had been brought in to represent the complainants; in effect, he was the district attorney.

“In the prayer garden,” Father Beale answered. “Sprawled across a stone bench, the right side of her face covered with blood. A dirty dishrag wedged in her mouth. Her skin a ghastly gray. Flies buzzing around her corpse.”

Father Fleming ran his fingers across the top of his head, as if brushing back the hair that had not graced his scalp for many years. “I mean, when did you last see her alive?”

“At the vestry meeting. The night before.”

As Ben had learned, the vestry was the governing body of St. Benedict’s Episcopal Church, where Beale was currently priest and Ben was a member of the choir. The vestry, led by the senior warden, oversaw all the administrative aspects of the church. The murder victim, Helen Conrad, had been on the vestry for years and was expected to run for senior warden the following year.

Ben glanced over his shoulder. Most of the surviving members of the vestry were seated in the folding chairs that made for a makeshift gallery in the parish hall of the church. Some of the rank and file parishioners were in attendance as well-many faces he recognized, as well as some he hadn’t seen in the entire seven months he’d been attending this church. Apparently a priest on trial was more exciting than your average Sunday service.

“And is it true, as we heard earlier, that you engaged in a heated dispute with Ms. Conrad during the vestry meeting?”

“Yes. I’m afraid it is. Of course, I engaged in a heated dispute with almost everyone who was there.”

“What was the nature of the dispute?”

“The vestry had just learned that I have been allowing a gay and lesbian group to hold meetings at the church. In the parish hall. Without the approval of the vestry.”

“And for how many months has this been going on?”

Beale drew in a deep breath before answering. “Over three years. Since I transferred to the church.”

Although he worked hard to maintain his serene unflappability, this had apparently caught Father Fleming by surprise. “You are aware, I suppose, that the Diocese of Oklahoma does not recognize homosexual marriages or permit practicing homosexuals to act as priests. Opinions regarding the validity of the homosexual lifestyle are sharply divided.”

“I am aware of that.”

Ben felt he had to intervene, if only to give his client a momentary respite. He rose to address the judge. “Sir, the purpose of this tribunal as I understand it is not to debate theological issues but to determine whether Father Beale should be removed from his position as rector of this church.”

Payne, the bishop’s assistant, answered on the judge’s behalf. “The charge of which Father Beale has been accused is conduct unbecoming a priest.” Payne was a short, slight man in a dark suit and white shirt-probably as close as he could come to looking like a priest without being one. In many ways, however, he was Father Holbrook’s opposite-not only physically, but in the down-to-earth attitude that sharply contrasted Holbrook’s more cerebral approach. “If Father Beale was acting in opposition to canonical law, then he engaged in conduct unbecoming a priest.”

Father Fleming resumed his examination of the witness. “Was that the only topic discussed?”

“No,” Beale replied. “There were many others. Helen criticized my Christmas homily-”

“Would that be the sermon in which you suggested that the virgin birth of our Savior was a myth?”

Ben could see Beale steeling himself, preparing to do theological battle once more. “We are told that God was made man in the person of Jesus. That he was one of us. But if he was not conceived as human beings are conceived, if he was conjured up through some… some mystical magic trick, then he was not one of us, was he? How could he be called human if he was not born of man and woman?”

Fleming made no comment, but his disdain for Beale’s argument was obvious. “Was this also the homily in which you challenged the resurrection of Jesus Christ?”

Beale cleared his throat. “No. That was for Easter.”

“How appropriate.”

“And I didn’t challenge the resurrection. I said it didn’t matter.”

Fleming’s small green eyes were fairly bulging. The reaction from the adjudicative panel was no less dramatic. “You said that the return from the dead of Our Lord-didn’t matter?”

“I said that what is important is Jesus’ teaching, his words, his guidance. That’s what gives his life validity. That’s why we follow him. We don’t need a grandiose bit of abracadabra. We don’t need the bribe of life after death. We should follow his teaching because it’s the right thing to do, not because we expect to get something out of it in the end.”

“And what, may I ask, happens to the blessed sacrament of communion if the priest disavows the resurrection of Christ?”

“Communion is a symbol, a public and spiritual avowal that we are at one with the teachings of Christ. That we draw strength from His presence in our hearts and minds. That we want to do right. That we want to believe.”

Back at the judge’s bench, Ben observed an infinitesimal pursing of Father Holbrook’s lips-a sure sign of his disapproval of the views espoused by the priest on the witness stand.

“We have also been told that the issue of abortion rights was discussed at the vestry meeting, in rather loud and angry words.”

“That is true. Helen Conrad was a member of a local organization founded by another vestry member, Ernestine Rupert. It’s a pro-choice group. They wanted to meet in the parish hall on Thursday evenings. I gave them my permission. But some of the vestry members-the ones who are pro-life-objected.”

“Interesting. Interesting,” Fleming said, tapping his lower lip with his pen. “But none of this explains why you were shouting at Helen Conrad.”

“She was not the only member of the vestry with whom I had… problems. I also had protracted discussions with Kate McGuire. Susan Marino.”

“Did you shout at them, too?”

“I used forceful words, but I hope I did not shout at-”

“I have four affidavits from eyewitnesses,” Fleming said, shuffling the papers before him. “All four describe your conduct as shouting or bellowing. One witness was able to hear you clearly even though she was in the nursery at the opposite end of the church.”

“It was an intense discussion, sir.”

“And a violent display of temper, according to these affidavits.”

Ben rose to his feet. “Father Holbrook, I must object to the use of affidavits rather than live witnesses. I can’t cross-examine an affidavit.”

“Mr. Kincaid, this is not federal court.”

“No, but this tribunal is supposedly governed by the Federal Rules of Evidence. And there’s no way you could do this in federal court, not when the testifying witnesses are available.”

Holbrook lowered his chin. “Mr. Kincaid, our goal here is not a flamboyant display of legal skills. Our goal is to arrive at the truth so that we can best serve the needs of the parish.”

“I understand that. But I still must insist-”

“Your objection is overruled, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Sir, with all due respect-you know that in the eyes of the law, I’m right.”

“Perhaps,” he answered. “But in the eyes of God, you’re wrong. Please sit down.”

Thank you, sir. May I have another one, sir? Ben sat down.

Fleming resumed his questioning. “Father Beale, is it true that you said-or rather shouted-that Helen Conrad, the woman who was later murdered, did not deserve to be a member of the vestry?”

“My point was simply that if she could not open her mind to new-”

Fleming’s voice rose for the first time in the entire proceeding. “Did-you-say-those-words?”

Beale’s head bowed slightly. “I’m afraid I did.”

“Did you also say that you would not allow her to-quote-bring the whole church down to her small-minded level-end quote?”

“Tempers were high, sir. Words were flying-”

“Did you say it?”

“I did, sir. I did.”

“And did she respond by telling you she was going to report you to the bishop? That she would have you removed from the church?”

“She did.”

“And how did you respond?”

Father Beale did not immediately reply.

“I have the words right before me, Father,” Fleming continued. “But I would like to hear it from you.”

When Father Beale’s voice finally returned, it was but an echo of what it had been before. “I told her I would not allow her to destroy thirty-four years of ministry. That I would stop her.”

“No matter what it took?”

Beale closed his eyes. “No matter what it took.”

The silence that filled the parish hall spoke more clearly than all the testimony that had gone before. It was as if a collective chill shuddered down the spines of those present. Ben thought that by now he should be immune to such things, but he felt it, just the same.

Without being obvious, Ben checked the expressions on the faces of the church members who had turned out to witness this event. Ben had hoped for more of a grand jury approach-no spectators allowed-but Payne had decided that since this action directly concerned the parish, and since the action was in fact being brought by the parish, he could not exclude them.

Ben could see at a glance which of the spectators still supported Father Beale-not many-and which were of the clique that wanted him ousted. But even those who backed Beale seemed shaken by this horrible threat.

“It was an inexcusable flash of temper, sir,” Beale said. “I know that.”

“It was a breach of faith, Father Beale. With your own parish.”

“I know. And I have apologized and asked their forgiveness.”

Fleming frowned. “After you shouted these threats, you left the meeting?”

“Yes. I was-quite agitated.”

“And the next time you saw Helen Conrad-”

“She was dead. Asphyxiated.”

“Who found the body?”

“A young woman from outside the parish. She apparently came to the prayer garden early in the morning to visit the remains of her grandmother. She found the body and, since the doors to the church were still locked, she called the police from her car phone.”

“When did you find out?”

“When I arrived at the church, perhaps five minutes later.”

“What was your reaction?”

Beale lifted his head, staring at Fleming as if his question had exceeded all bounds of propriety. “I was grief-stricken, of course. I was shocked and horrified. A member of my flock had been slain, in a cruel and heartless manner. And on holy ground.”

“And yet, the woman had been a thorn in your side. A thorn that was now very conveniently removed.”

Beale’s lips trembled. His teeth clenched tightly and the lines of his angular face deepened. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, sir, but if you imagine that I had anything to do with what happened, or even that it secretly pleased me, then you know nothing about me. I was her priest! Yes, we had disagreements. Yes, I felt she should be removed from the vestry, she and all the others who are so mired in the past they can’t see the future. But I never wanted this-” His voice broke on the last word. He jerked his head around abruptly, trying to maintain control. “I would never cause or wish violence on any person. It’s contrary to everything I believe.”

Fleming was unmoved. “Were you questioned by the police?”

“Yes.”

“You were a suspect.”

“Most of the members of this parish were questioned. No charges were ever brought. Against me or anyone else.”

And Ben knew why. By picking the brain of his good friend, Major Mike Morelli of the Homicide division, he had learned that Father Beale was indeed the police department’s top suspect. His collar didn’t grant him any immunity from their inquiry. An unveiled threat followed by a violent death was simply too incriminating to be overlooked. The reason no charges had been brought was that there was simply no evidence. Motive, yes, but proof, no. No fingerprints, no footprints, no evidence of any kind. The woman had apparently been clubbed on the head then strangled shortly after nightfall, but it had rained in the early morning. Since the prayer garden was exposed to the elements, whatever trace evidence may have once existed had washed away.

“Not by the police,” Fleming continued. “But what about the vestry?”

“On the Sunday following Helen’s murder, the vestry formally requested that I resign.”

“They believed you had committed the murder.”

“They didn’t specify their reasons.”

“But it was understood-”

“Most of them had been wanting me out for a good long while. This development gave them the perfect excuse.”

“Was that what they said?”

Beale pursed his lips. “They said I had engaged in conduct unbecoming a priest.”

“But you declined to resign.”

“Of course I did.”

Which is why we’re all here now, Ben thought. He had counseled Father Beale that the simplest thing would be to simply resign and start fresh somewhere else. But Father Beale wouldn’t hear of it. He had been sent here by the bishop, and he wouldn’t give up-especially not now, when his resignation would be seen as a tacit admission of his complicity in a murder. When he refused to submit to the wishes of the vestry, however, they convened an ecclesiastical trial to resolve the conflict.

“That’s all,” Fleming said. Ben waived cross. “You may step down.”

Father Beale did as he was bid, his legs considerably more wobbly than they had been before.

Father Holbrook addressed the gallery. “I think we’ve heard everything we need. I want to thank everyone who took time to present evidence to this tribunal.” He glanced across the room. “Mr. Kincaid, do you have anything you would like to say before we recess?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” Ben had no idea whether he could do any good here, but he certainly hadn’t been much use so far, so he felt honor-bound to try. The evidence connecting Father Beale to the murder was tenuous and circumstantial, but as had been made clear to him repeatedly, the criminal court rules-including the standard of reasonable doubt-did not apply here. All they had to do was find him guilty of conduct unbecoming a priest, and if they suspected he had anything to do with the murder, they surely would.

Throughout this trial, Ben reasoned as he approached the judge’s station, he’d come up second-best-because this was a court of God, not a court of law. But maybe now he could use that to his advantage.

“Perhaps it’s just because I’m used to being in the criminal courts,” Ben began, “but I can’t help but believe that all these theological and doctrinal issues are a blind. The only reason this proceeding exists is that a tragic murder occurred. And some people believe-or want to believe-that Father Beale did it.”

“The charge against him,” Payne said, interrupting, “is conduct unbecoming a priest.”

“I know. But I still think this court would never have been convened and none of us would be here but for the murder. True, Father Beale has some unorthodox beliefs. Is that news to anyone? He’s an independent thinker, and has been his entire career. People who don’t like it go somewhere else. Similarly, his temper flare-ups at the vestry meetings are regrettable, but who among us has never lost his temper? Would we even consider removing a priest from his parish for that? No, the reason we’re here today is that a murder happened, and there is some superficial, circumstantial evidence that suggests Father Beale could be a suspect.”

Ben paused, turning slightly toward the gallery. “And that scares people. People want to love their priest-it’s only natural. They want to place their faith in him. But how can they do that when a little voice in the back of their heads is whispering that he might be a murderer?”

“Are you speaking on Father Beale’s behalf, Mr. Kincaid?” Holbrook asked. “Because it certainly doesn’t sound like it.”

“I am, sir, and here’s my point. If you remove this man from his office now, for whatever reason, everyone will assume it was because you believe he is guilty of the most heinous of crimes. No one will remember the theological debates, the temper spats. You will have convicted him more surely than a jury of twelve could have done-and on considerably less evidence.”

Holbrook’s hands parted. “We must do what’s best for the parish.”

“That’s right, sir. And that includes the leader of the parish. Father Beale. Remember, there is a reason he was not charged by the police. There was no evidence against him. Rumor, yes. Gossip, certainly. But they won’t condemn a man based on gossip alone. Will you?” He looked sharply at each member of the adjudicative panel. “Will you remove a man from his parish based upon that? Will you taint the rest of his life, his entire career, past and present, based on… innuendo? Is this a proper fate for a man of God?”

Ben held their attention a few more moments, forcing them to consider his words. “His future now rests in your hands, ladies and gentlemen. Will you be the one to cast the first stone?”

While the panel deliberated, Ben situated himself in the narthex, the connecting foyer between the church sanctuary and the parish hall. It was a crowded area; no one wanted to go home until they’d heard what the panel was going to do.

Ben kept mostly to himself, avoiding eye contact. He knew this was as stressful for the other parishioners as it was for him. They undoubtedly felt some obligation to be cordial to a fellow church member. At the same time, he was defending the priest many of them were trying to oust, a priest who had become extremely unpopular.

How had he gotten into this mess? It was Christina’s fault, of course. Wasn’t it always? She was the one who kept urging him to get out, to be more social, to join civic organizations. When he learned that his childhood priest had transferred to St. Benedict’s in Tulsa, only a few miles from the boarding house where he lived, it seemed only natural to check it out. In no time at all, Father Beale had Ben singing tenor in the adult choir, and Ben was actually enjoying it-until a corpse turned up in the prayer garden.

On the other side of the narthex, Ben spotted a group of women huddled together chatting. They were all in their thirties or forties. One of them he recognized as Kate McGuire-the woman who had been mentioned during the trial as one of Father Beale’s opponents. If he wasn’t mistaken, the blond woman beside Kate was Susan Marino. They were both on the vestry; Kate was senior warden. He couldn’t tell what they were discussing, but given their extreme agitation, he could guess. Father Beale.

“Excuse me. You’re Ben Kincaid, aren’t you?”

Ben looked down and saw two teenage girls-about fourteen or fifteen, he judged-standing before him. The one speaking was tall and thin with short black hair. Her companion, who stood a half-step behind her, was somewhat shorter and heavier and had long curly brown hair.

“I mean, I know you are. I should know, shouldn’t I? I used to see you all the time. I just wanted to introduce myself. I mean, I’m sorry if I seem brash, but I think if you want to meet someone, you should just walk up and meet them. Why stand around until someone introduces you? I mean, it’s not like we’re in the eighteenth century or anything, you know what I mean?” She thrust her hand forward. “My name is Judy. Judy Jacobson.” Ben took her hand and shook. “My friend here’s name is Maura. Maura Hubbard. She doesn’t talk much. That’s why we’re such a good pair. She’s shy. I’m not.”

Ben smiled. “Nice to meet you, Judy. And Maura.”

“Am I turning you off? Because if I am, you can tell me. I know some men don’t like women who are too aggressive.”

“Not at all. You remind me of a very good friend of mine.”

“Really? Cool.” She jabbed her friend Maura. “Did you hear that? I remind him of a very good friend of his!”

Maura giggled.

“Have we met before?” Ben asked. “Because you said you used to see me all the time.”

Judy laughed. “Oh, I meant on television. When you were trying the Wallace Barrett case.”

Ben restrained himself from rolling his eyes. That again.

“I was home that summer, and I thought your trial was a lot more interesting than soap operas.”

“Quite a compliment.” Ben’s defense of Wallace Barrett, then Tulsa ’s mayor, who was accused of murdering his wife and two daughters, was his highest-profile case to date. The media coverage had been extensive.

“I used to watch you every day on Court TV. Man, you were so good. I couldn’t believe everything you got people to admit on cross-examination. And your closing statement-it sent chills down my spine. Watching you made me want to be a lawyer.”

“My apologies.”

“After the trial, I went on the Internet and read everything I could about you. I even bought that book you wrote, on the Kindergarten Killer.”

“Ah. You were the one.”

“I’ve followed all your big cases. I even cut out articles about you in the newspaper and put them in a scrapbook.”

Maura’s voice was a whisper’s whisper. “You’re her hero.”

Judy jabbed her again, rather more roughly than before. “Anyway, I know you’re busy. I just wanted to say I think it’s a great thing you’re doing in there for Father Beale. I mean, other lawyers talk about taking unpopular cases, especially when they’re getting paid a lot of money, but you really do it, and half the time you don’t get paid anything at all. I think that’s really wonderful.”

“Yes, so does my staff.”

“I mean, I know you’re going to lose this one-the panel almost has to remove Father Beale, don’t they? When half the church is up in arms against him, and the man maybe even committed a murder?” She giggled excitedly at the prospect. “But I think you did everything you could for him in there.”

“Girls, girls, girls. I hope you’re not bothering Mr. Kincaid.” An elderly woman wedged herself between them, pushing the girls back. Her face was familiar. Ben knew he had seen her around; she was one of the women in charge of ECW-the Episcopal Church Women’s group. But what was her name? Ruth something. Carter? Conner?

Bingo. “Not at all, Mrs. O’Connell. We’re just having a nice chat.”

“Well, it’s very good of you to spend your time with two silly girls.” Judy shot her a look that could have leveled a city. “Shouldn’t you two be folding robes or something? Remember, an acolyte’s work is never done.”

Judy somehow managed to flash a smile that lacked even the slightest trace of warmth. “Yes, Mrs. O’Connell.” The two girls skittered away.

“Oh, hello, Ernestine.” Ruth was greeting a woman of similar age who was decked out with enough jewelry to stock a Tiffany’s. Ben couldn’t help but notice the honking big diamond ring on her finger and the diamond-studded bracelet rattling around her wrist. Ben didn’t know anything about gems, but he knew those baubles had to be seriously valuable. He’d heard rumors that Ernestine Rupert, a widow, was extremely wealthy, and that her tithe alone made up half the budget for St. Benedict’s. With those doodads dangling in his face, he couldn’t doubt it.

“Ben,” Ruth said, “I just wanted to tell you, on behalf of the entire ECW, that there will be no hard feelings against you when this trial is completed. We just want to put the whole chapter behind us. Let bygones be bygones. And once Father Beale is removed, we’ll be able to do that.”

“Well, that’s… very kind of you.”

“You mustn’t feel that you’ve failed, either, dear boy,” Ernestine added. “The panel really has no choice, does it? And in some respects, you’ve been part of the process that helped resolve the matter. You shouldn’t come down too hard on defense lawyers, that’s what I was telling Ruth. They’re a necessary evil.”

“How kind.”

“Well, remember what I said. I expect to see you in the choir next Sunday.” She wiggled her fingers and passed on.

Ben felt Christina sidle up beside him. “Looks like you have some admirers.”

“What, the old ladies?”

Christina crinkled her freckled nose. “No, the girls.”

Ben glanced to the side and saw that Judy and Maura were still watching him. As soon as his eyes met theirs, they giggled and ran off.

“The taller one used to watch me on TV,” Ben explained. “Now she wants to be a lawyer.”

Christina made a tsking sound. “Corrupting the minds of youth. Isn’t that why they made Socrates take hemlock?”

“I might take hemlock, if it got me out of here.”

“That seems a bit extreme.”

Ben felt a rush of air behind him. Harold Payne had entered the narthex. “Please reassemble in the parish hall. The panel has reached its decision.”

Father Holbrook settled his considerable weight into the chair behind a table draped with a purple cloth. His face was long and his expression flat.

“First of all,” he said, “I want to make it clear to everyone present that neither I nor the jurors take any pleasure in this proceeding. These internecine conflicts within a parish can do irreparable damage, and inevitably divert our attention from the more important matter of serving Our Lord Jesus Christ. I have a responsibility to my diocese, however, and the charges that have been brought against Father Beale are serious ones-ones that cannot be ignored. Therefore, we have conducted this trial in accordance with the canons of this church, and the panel has reached a decision. They have kindly allowed me to speak on their behalf.”

He glanced down at his notes. “Even if we exclude the speculations regarding the unfortunate death of Ms. Conrad, the court has received eyewitness accounts of open hostility toward parishioners, church resources used for improper or immoral purposes, and heretical teachings diametrically opposed to the true faith of the Episcopal Church. These offenses simply cannot be overlooked.”

Ben laid his hand on Beale’s arm. “I’m sorry, Father.”

“At the same time, we must reflect that when this church brought Father Beale from Oklahoma City to be the shepherd of this flock, it made a contract. Not only with Father Beale, not only with the diocese, but with God. If, as we believed then, God called Father Beale to this church, what right have we to work against His wishes?”

There was a stirring in the audience. Heads turned. Voices whispered.

“We are also concerned about the suggestions that Father Beale might be involved in the murder of Helen Conrad, based on the flimsiest of circumstantial evidence. Although the evidence was clearly insufficient to warrant criminal prosecution, it is true, as his able counsel noted, that Father Beale will surely be tried and convicted in the minds of most people if we remove him from his sacred office. Therefore, we decline to do so.”

The whispers Ben heard over his shoulder grew louder. “No!” “Is he kidding?” “This can’t be!”

“The documented instances of misconduct by Father Beale are serious, however, and therefore we are directing Father Beale to take a two-week leave of absence from this church to be spent at the St. Michael’s retreat, where he will undergo an extended period of meditation and, we hope, rededication to his vocation. We are also directing him to enroll in an anger management course at the earliest opportunity. But we will not remove him from his calling. What God has made, let no man rend asunder. This court is adjourned.”

Usually, after the rendering of a surprise verdict, there was such an upswell of noise and activity that Ben could hardly hear himself think. Not this time, however. After the initial shocked responses had been uttered, most of the audience sat in stunned silence, barely moving, not saying a word.

“Congratulations,” Ben said, clasping his client on the arm. “You’ve won.”

“Yes,” Father Beale said gravely. “But what have I won?”

“You’ve won your freedom,” Christina answered. “If you want to stay at St. Benedict’s, you can. If you’d rather start anew somewhere else, you can. Whichever path you follow, it will be because you chose to follow it, not because you were hounded by enemies or haunted by horrible accusations. The long nightmare is over.”

But Christina was wrong, as would become apparent to the three of them, and to the entire church, altogether too soon. The long nightmare was just beginning.