Criminal Intent

Chapter 21

The Gospel According to Daniel

As we posed there in the darkened room, transfixed like some twisted version of the pietà, I could only think, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken us? Is this the twelfth plague, a visitation from the Angel of Death? Yes, God works in mysterious ways, but he’s not normally sadistic about it. If ever there was to be a time when my faith might waver, this was it.

And it did, in my heart at least. True, I did not run, but I certainly considered it. I knew what this latest tragedy would mean-more infamy, almost certain revocation of bail, perhaps even defrocking. The temptation to run-to let this cup pass from me-was great. In another world, in another time, I very well might have done it.

But not here, not with Susan. One instinct overcame another. I took her into my arms and cradled her, hoping to bring some comfort to her passing, if she was not dead already. I gave her unction, performed the last rites. Requiescat in pace. And I did not run. I trusted God to take care of me.

Dear, dear Susan. At one time we had been close, we had held one another and it had meant something to both of us. And now there was nothing left. Not of us. Or of her.

The police were as shocked as I was to see that it had happened again. Few words were spoken. I was taken into custody, read my rights. My attorney did his best to intervene, arguing about my readiness for the impending trial, but there was no point. I had blood on my hands again-literally-and even I could see it would be gross misconduct for the police to do anything other than what they did. And so, like Paul in Rome, I was once again imprisoned, if not for my faith, then certainly because of it.

If I were one to believe in omens, I would have to think that this new murder, on the eve of trial, was not a good one. Forces were at work that seemed determined to see me punished, humiliated. And yet, as they led me from my cell to prepare for court, I thought that as hideous as the night had been, as ghastly as the trial was sure to be, I at least had the comfort of knowing that it was coming to an end. It could not possibly get worse. Nothing could happen that could be any more horrible than what had already occurred.

In retrospect, my naÏveté seems pathetic. The trial, not the legal trial but the spiritual trial, was just beginning. The worst was yet to come.

BAIL REVOKED.

The notice was waiting for Ben when he arrived in the courtroom. It was no surprise. As it stood now, Judge Pitcock looked like a fool for having granted bail in the first place, when Father Beale was a suspect in two murders. Now he was a suspect in three, if not virtually convicted in the minds of most, and the only act Pitcock could take to save face was to revoke bail as fast and fully as possible.

Ben crumbled the notice and tossed it into the nearest wastebasket. He was tired. He’d had less than an hour’s sleep. He’d spent the night dealing with Mike and the rest of the homicide department, who questioned Father Beale well into the wee hours. They wanted to interrogate everyone immediately, before memories faded, before Beale had a chance to concoct a story or have one fed to him. But Ben fought it all the way. He’s going on trial for his life, tomorrow morning, Ben argued. To deny a man sleep on the eve of his trial was a violation of the fair trial provisions of the Constitution.

Ultimately, they compromised. Mike questioned Beale for an hour, then said he would continue it the next night-and as many nights thereafter as it took to get it done. After Beale was in bed, Ben went through the usual motions he made for the newly incarcerated, including an all but preposterous request that he be released on bail.

Outside the courtroom, in the hallway, Ben heard the buzz rise among the huddled throng of reporters. Beale was on his way.

The hallway was jam-packed with press, more than Ben had seen in his entire career, even when the city’s mayor was on trial. Sadly enough, by the time a case went to trial, it had usually been bumped from the top of the news list. Not this time. With a fresh victim only the night before, this was the story of the day. It was taking on the tone of a tabloid soap opera-exactly the kind of story reporters seemed to love most.

As soon as Ben was back in the hallway, questions started flying his direction.

“Is it true God told him to kill that woman? Or Satan?”

“How can you explain the blood all over him?”

“How many women does he have to kill before he gets the needle?”

“Are you going to make a deal with the DA?”

Although he normally assiduously ignored the press while a trial was in progress, Ben felt he had to answer that one. “No deals.”

Accurate, if somewhat uninformative. Ben had in fact visited Canelli this morning to discuss the possibility of a deal. Canelli told him to go climb his thumb.

“Why no deals?” one reporter followed up.

“Because Father Beale is innocent!”

Ben’s statement was met not only with disbelief, but outright laughter. The reporters seemed to think it humorous that a lawyer would so tenaciously argue the innocence of someone who so clearly wasn’t. A bad sign. Because those journalists would be sharing their opinions, however subtly, with their readers and viewers. Or to put it another way-the jury pool.

Ben wished Christina was here, but he knew she was in the clerk’s office prepping for jury selection. Christina got along well with the press; many of these reporters were her friends. Not so he. Ben knew he should be more open-minded about people who did, after all, fulfill an important role in a democratic system, but he’d seen too many cases screwed and too many jury pools tainted by reporters trying to boost their ratings or to get a scoop on the competition.

Ben spotted the two marshals escorting Father Beale down the hallway. At Ben’s insistence, he was out of the orange coveralls and into a suit and tie, shaved and groomed. Choosing his clothes had been a bit of a problem. Beale wanted to wear his clerical collar; he always did, at least when he wasn’t in prison. But Ben worried that the jury would see it as putting on a show, trying to shove his holiness down their throats. Beale finally agreed to wear a blue suit, with a regular button-down collar. Ben was relieved. No one would ever have an opportunity to forget that he was a priest; he didn’t need to be costumed for it.

Ben put his arm on Beale’s shoulder, careful to act friendly and unafraid. Those potential jurors were probably watching; it was important that Ben indicate that Beale was someone he liked, not just someone for whom he worked. And the importance of seeming unafraid was obvious. Since everyone else in the hallway was acting just the opposite.

“Get any sleep?” Ben asked.

“Cot was a bit lumpy,” Beale replied. “Think you could get me one of those cushioned orthopedic numbers?”

“I’ll work on it.” Ben peered at his face. For a man who had been through everything he had endured in the last twelve hours, he didn’t look half bad. “Ready to go?”

“Would it change anything if I said no?”

“ ’Fraid not.”

Ben pushed open the double doors and stepped inside the courtroom. The room was packed; there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. Again, Ben was not surprised. The third murder had made this trial a major draw for fans of murder and mayhem. Ben saw some familiar faces, including many people from St. Benedict’s-Ruth, Ernestine, Alvin, and several others. He also spotted Andrea, in her reserved seat at the front, just behind the defense table. That was important-Ben wanted the jury reminded that Father Beale was married, and to see that she was here supporting him.

Ben and Father Beale walked down the aisle to the front of the courtroom. The marshals remained at the rear. Ben pulled out a chair at the defense table, but instead of sitting in it, Beale knelt beside it.

Ben leaned in close and whispered. “What are you doing?”

Beale’s eyes were closed. “I’m praying.”

“Well… stop it.”

“I always pray for God’s support and guidance before I do anything important.”

Ben’s forehead creased. “But people are looking at you.”

“And? You think they’ll be surprised to see a priest praying?”

“They’ll think you’re putting on a show. For the prospective jurors.”

“I can’t help what people think.”

“I can. It’s my job.” He tugged at Beale’s arm. “C’mon. If you have to pray, at least do it sitting in a chair.”

“It’s not the Episcopal way.”

“Consider it an order.”

“But-”

“Remember our discussion last night? As soon as we stepped through those double doors, I became the boss. So do what I tell you.”

Beale reluctantly allowed Ben to pull him into the chair. He continued to pray, head down, hands folded, like Ben had done as a child saying grace at the dinner table.

What a great job this was, Ben mused. The life-enriching work of a defense attorney. Today, for instance, his first act had been to tell someone to stop praying. And if he was trying to lead people away from prayer, that would make him…

Never mind. Too many people thought that about lawyers already.

Assistant DA Canelli strolled over from his side of the courtroom, towering over Ben with his stratospheric height. “Look, I talked to my boss. I think we’ve got a slam dunk, but he’s worried about negative publicity fallout from nailing a priest, even if we win. So I’m willing to give you life.”

“Life?”

“Right. But it has to be on three counts.”

“Three? You haven’t even charged him on the first and third-”

“We have now.”

Ben ground his teeth. “When were you planning to tell me?”

“I gave the papers to your partner-the redhead.”

“Right before trial?”

“Sorry, but everything has happened so fast. I didn’t plan a new murder the night before trial, but I had to deal with it.”

Ben supposed that was probably true. “Give me second degree and I’ll take it to my client.”

“No deal. I’m saving you from the death penalty, and I think that’s gift enough for a three-time serial killer. Take it or leave it. Personally, I want to go to trial.”

Ben glanced down at Beale, who was shaking his head vigorously.

“No deal,” Ben answered.

Canelli did not appear surprised or disappointed. “See you in the funny papers,” he said, flashing his uncommonly handsome smile.

Christina appeared, her arms loaded down with paper. “Got the drivers’ licenses.” Which was her way of saying she’d obtained a copy of the rolls of prospective jurors-who were selected at random from drivers’ license records.

“Good. Keep an eye on them. You’re my people person.”

She beamed. “Because of my sunny personality?”

“Because… I’m not.”

Judge Pitcock entered the courtroom from chambers. He couldn’t possibly be unaware of the enormous number of reporters in the courtroom, but Ben thought he was doing a fair job of not playing to them, at least not obviously.

“This court is now in session,” he said, rapping his gavel. “First on our docket today is the State of Oklahoma versus Beale, Case CJ-02-78945P. Murder in the first degree. Are all the parties ready?”

Both Ben and Canelli indicated that they were.

“Very well. Let the trial begin.”

Chapter 22

As Ben well knew, an old trial lawyer bromide held that there are only two subjects on which you absolutely could not quiz jurors during voir dire. You could ask them about their personal lives, even their sex lives, if need be. You could ask what they watch on television, what they read, what they eat, where they work, how they like their steak cooked, how often they go to the bathroom, whether they have an innie or an outie. But there were two subjects you could not touch, two areas so sacrosanct the judge would shut you down in a heartbeat if you even tried to address them: politics and religion.

Unfortunately, this voir dire necessarily involved both.

“I’m sure most of you, like me, tend to automatically treat a religious man with a little more respect than the average joe,” Canelli said, addressing the first eighteen drivers’ licenses called to the jury box. “It’s kind of automatic. And that worries me, of course, because in this case, it’s important that you treat Daniel Beale no differently than you would any other defendant. No special privileges. Just fairly.”

But not too fairly, right? Ben thought.

“Do you think you can do that?” Canelli asked. He polled some of the prospective jurors, starting with older men who were less likely to be traumatized by being called on individually. “Do you think you could treat the defendant just as you would anyone else charged with a capital crime?”

Well, honestly, Ben thought, what were they going to say? Ben scrutinized the men and women giving the answers, and he saw no indication that the defendant’s priestly status was going to give him any great advantage. In fact, he wondered if it might not be just the opposite.

An elderly Hispanic woman on the second row shifted her weight slightly. “Act’lly, sir, I do have a problem with that.”

Even Canelli seemed surprised. He was making a rhetorical point, not really expecting an affirmative answer. “How so, ma’am?”

“I just don’t think I could ever do anything that would hurt a priest.”

“Even if I proved that he had committed a horrible crime?”

“Well… maybe. But I think-he’s the strong right arm of God. He goes where God wants him to go.”

Including the state pen? Ben wondered.

“Ma’am, are you saying you couldn’t convict this defendant even if his guilt were proved beyond a reasonable doubt?”

Again she did not directly answer the question. “I’m not saying that. I just can’t see myself doing any harm to a man of God. A man who has devoted his whole life to Christ. I grew up in a Catholic school, and I was taught that a priest is special.”

“I understand,” Canelli said patiently. “I must ask you to answer-”

“I mean, doesn’t he deserve some extra consideration? We’re talking about a man who has agreed to give up everything. Money, worldly possessions, even women!”

Canelli cleared his throat. “Uh… actually, ma’am, Daniel Beale is an Episcopal priest. They don’t… uh… you know, swear an oath of chastity. He’s married.”

“Episcopal? Oh.” She slid back into her seat. “Well, that’s different.”

Canelli nodded slowly. “So… do you think you could judge him just as you would any other defendant?”

“Oh, sure. No problem.”

Ben glanced at his client. Beale should be distressed by this about-face, but Ben could tell he was working to suppress a grin. Nice that he could still see humor in the horror.

“Many of the witnesses Daniel Beale may call to the stand will also be religious men and women,” Canelli continued. “Members of the clergy, members of his church. Again, of course, their testimony should be treated no differently than anyone else’s. You should watch what they say and how they say it just as you would anyone else, trying to determine whether you’re being told the truth-or a lie.”

Ben poised himself to rise. He preferred not to object during voir dire, because he knew the jury didn’t like it, but Canelli was pushing this about as far as Ben could tolerate.

“It’s even possible,” Canelli continued, “that a member of his church or a professional colleague might feel they have an obligation to a man of the cloth, that their duty to God created a duty to his representatives, and that might cause them to say things that are… um… not, strictly speaking, true.”

That was it. Too far. “Objection,” Ben said, rising. “This is becoming argumentative.”

Judge Pitcock nodded. “Sustained. Stick to examining the jurors’ qualifications, counsel.”

“Of course,” Canelli replied. He ran through most of the obvious subjects-looking for personal connections to any of the players, deep-rooted biases against law enforcement-anything that might hamper his case. He previewed some of the political issues that had been subjects of disagreement on St. Benedict’s vestry. He made sure the jurors would all be willing to deliver the death penalty, if the evidence called for it. Then he finished, after not quite four hours-a surprisingly short interrogation for the prosecution in a capital murder case.

“Go get ’em, tiger,” Christina said, giving Ben a little push.

Ben flashed a wry smile. He hated voir dire, as they both knew. He had tried to get Christina to do it. After all, she was the one who was good with people. But Christina insisted that she was better able to evaluate the venirepersons if she didn’t have the distraction of having to ask questions and field answers. If she were free to watch and listen, to look for the subtle cues, the twitch of an eye or the turn of a head, that ultimately told her far more than the spoken answers did.

Ben started with some softball questions about their jobs and their families. Stuff that was marginally relevant, but was really being asked to give them an opportunity to adjust to Ben’s style and warm up to him. There was a certain rhythm to a good voir dire, Ben had learned, but sometimes it took a few questions to find it. After about twenty minutes of that sort of thing, he redirected himself to the main topic-the forbidden one.

“How many of you folks go to church? At least occasionally?” Even Canelli hadn’t been this brash, but Ben thought it was important.

All but two raised their hands.

“How many of you belong to Episcopal churches? Or have in the past?”

No hands rose. Ben wasn’t surprised. Oklahoma was fundamentalist country-Southern Baptists, Methodists, that sort of thing. He also knew, unfortunately, that some retro-Protestants still harbored long-seated prejudices against those on the other side of the communion cup.

“The defendant, Father Beale, as you already know, is an Episcopal priest.” Ben had noticed that Canelli always referred to him either as the defendant or as Daniel Beale, so as not to remind them of his clerical status. Ben, of course, would do just the opposite. “Is that going to influence anyone? I mean, negatively. I know some people are raised in a certain way, or maybe they have a bad experience early on, and for whatever reason they end up not liking people of other religious faiths.”

This wasn’t going to work. Who was going to admit to being a religious bigot? Ben had to try something else.

“Doesn’t mean you’re necessarily a bad person or anything.” Sure, you could be one of those friendly bigots. “But sometimes things happen, and we don’t know why exactly. We just are what we are and think what we think.”

Still no takers. Ben kept pushing.

“Take asparagus, for instance. I hate asparagus.” Several of the jurors chuckled. “It’s not rational, I know. Lots of people love asparagus. Consider it a delicacy. My mother makes wonderful asparagus-or so I’ve heard. I’ve never tried it myself, and I never will. Because I hate the stuff. Don’t even like the way it smells.”

Ben let his smile fade, then brought them back to the serious subject at hand.

“But I have to keep asking about this-because it’s so important to this case and my client getting a fair trial. I have to ask if anyone out there has similar negative feelings about… people who worship differently. Go to different kinds of churches. That sort of thing.”

Apparently he had finally struck the right chord. A burly man in the back row, probably in his fifties, raised his hand.

The man spoke slowly and with a touch of a drawl. “I suppose mebbe I’ve got a little of that in me.”

“You mean-about other religions?”

“Yeah. I mean, I ain’t proud of it or anythin’. But I grew up on a farm, out in the western part of the state. Near Kingfisher. And some of the folks out there, my pa for instance-well, they just thought different. You know how it is. We almost never saw any Catholic or ’Piscopal types. So most of the things we said about them weren’t too kind. Kneelers, that’s what we called ’em.”

“And…” Ben broached it gently. “… do you still feel that way?”

“I get a little uncomfortable when I see a grown man in a black dress or with one of those funny backwards collars around his neck. Kind of gives me the heebie-jeebies, if you know what I mean.”

“Sure. So, given all that-do you think you’ll be able to judge the case fairly? To treat Father Beale as you would anyone else?”

“I’d sure try but-well, I guess to be honest, I don’t really know.”

“I understand. Thank you for your candor, sir.” Ben glanced over at the judge. It was a brief look but a meaningful one. It said: Don’t make me do it.

Judge Pitcock nodded. “Mr. Graves, I would also like to thank you for answering these questions fully and fairly. And this is no reflection whatsoever on you, but I think it would probably be best for all concerned if you did not serve on this particular jury.”

“I understand, your honor.”

“Good. You’re excused.”

The bailiff called a replacement for Mr. Graves, and voir dire continued.

But not for that long. Ben eventually uncovered two other prospectives who possibly harbored some form of prejudice against Catholics or the pope or nuns or whatever, but nothing so strong or self-confessed that he could expect the judge to remove them as he had Mr. Graves. Ben touched on a few other important areas, including some of the political issues involved, made sure they all understood what the words reasonable doubt meant and what a high standard it was, then sat down.

Both sides removed five jurors, which required calling replacements, who in turn had to be questioned from scratch. Ben removed both men he suspected harbored some religious prejudice, then removed three women, basically because Christina told him to. She thought two of them seemed harsh and judgmental-thus more likely to convict-and she thought one of them was lying about her background, or at least holding something back. Good enough for Ben. He used all his peremptories expunging them.

Canelli removed the Hispanic woman from Catholic school. Despite her assurances that a mere Episcopal priest was no great shakes, he apparently thought it was a risk he didn’t need to take. He removed four others for reasons that totally baffled Ben. Did he find them too kind and generous, thus unlikely to convict? Did he not like the way they looked at him? Did he not like what they were wearing? Ben had no clue, and Canelli was not likely to explain his case strategies to him, either.

It was a long day, but they managed to get the jury selected before five, which meant the trial could get under way first thing in the morning.

“Opening arguments at nine,” Judge Pitcock said, rapping his gavel. “Court is now in recess.”

The reporters flanked the exit, poised like rattlesnakes, which made Ben all the more content to hang about in the courtroom.

“Nice job,” Christina said.

“Are you being facetious? Canelli is much better at voir dire than I am.”

She shrugged. “Canelli is a people person. You’re a… a…”

“A non-people person?”

“You’re more reserved,” Christina settled on. “Which makes all the more impressive what you accomplished. I mean, you got a guy sitting in a room full of people to admit he still carried around negative religious baggage from his childhood-without embarrassing him or causing him and everyone else to clam up. How many lawyers could’ve managed that?”

“I was impressed, too,” Father Beale chimed in. “Although I was dismayed to see how much of that still exists. I thought we had all but rooted that out by working together, forming these interfaith and ecumenical committees. I liked to think all that backwoods Protestant-Catholic enmity was a thing of the past.” He shook his head. “I guess I’ve been a fool.”

Ben gripped him by the shoulder. “Well, Father, if that were a crime… I’d be doing life.”

Chapter 23

The crime scene teams were still hard at work when Ben drove by the church about eight o’clock that night. Most of the hardest work had been done-the pictures were taken, the site had been combed for physical evidence, the body had been removed. But that was just the start of the process; Ben knew it would be days before the police pulled out entirely, and weeks before the church was able to return to any semblance of normalcy.

He was surprised, however, to see Mike’s shiny silver TransAm out front. He parked and strolled inside.

Mike was in his usual rumpled trench coat, even though it wasn’t remotely cold, barking orders and marching his underlings through their paces.

“Didn’t I tell you to get those bloodstains off the wall?” Mike bellowed. He was nose-to-nose with some poor unfortunate baby officer.

“Y-y-yes, sir. I did that, sir.”

“And how, may I ask? Did you lick it up?”

“N-n-no, sir. I used a rag.”

“A rag and what?”

Ben heart’s bled for the poor chump. He looked as if he were about to pass out. “Water, sir.”

“And where, may I ask, did you get this water?”

“I-I found a sink. In the sanctuary, sir.”

“That wasn’t a sink, you dunderhead.” Mike leaned into his face. “That was a baptismal font! You just scrubbed the walls with holy water!”

“I-I-I-oh, I’ll refill it-”

“I’ve been informed they have that water brought in all the way from the river Jordan in the Middle East.”

The young officer’s mouth formed a broad O.

“And you just used it to moisten your Comet!”

“I-I-I-don’t know what-”

“Get out of my sight, Sergeant. Finish your job!”

“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

“And this time get the water out of the bathroom!”

The young man scurried away, obviously relieved to escape the senior homicide detective’s wrath.

Mike spotted Ben standing at the door. “Returning to the scene of the crime?”

“So to speak. Being a bit harsh, weren’t you?”

Mike shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. “It’s good for them.”

“Oh, no doubt. Sort of like verbal shock therapy.” He grinned. “I thought you were supposed to mellow as you got older.”

“Seems to be having the opposite effect on me.”

“That’s because you spend too much time around murders.”

“No, that’s because I spend too much time around lawyers. So what brings you here? Didn’t your big case start today?”

“Yup. But I wanted to see what was going on here. See if you learned anything.”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe-who did it?”

Mike gave him a withering look. “Give me a break, Ben. I’m not on the jury.”

“Mike… Father Beale did not commit this murder. Or any of the others.”

“You’re in deep denial, Ben.”

“I’m serious. I have a strong feeling about this.”

“Do I need to catalog all the times your feelings have turned out to be dead wrong?”

“I’m not wrong this time. I know I’m not.”

Mike shook his head. “I think it’s best we change the subject. Before I have you arrested for aggravated stupidity.”

Ben took the hint. “Is this killing consistent with the previous two murders?”

Mike’s head tilted slightly. “There are a few minor differences, but I still-”

“What are they?”

“This is probably like feeding a piece of the sky to Chicken Little, but the MO is somewhat altered here. The previous two murders involved some kind of blunt instrument. But this time the killer used a knife.”

“Meaning it’s a different killer.”

“Or, more likely, that the killer is becoming more bold, more bloody. Needs a little gore to keep it exciting.”

“Have you found the knife?”

“Unfortunately, no. But we will.”

“Time of death?”

“Of course, the coroner hasn’t made any official pronouncements, but the inside scoop is that it could’ve been anywhere from five minutes to an hour before the body was found.”

“No way. I heard Susan Marino engage in a heated discussion with George Finley maybe half an hour or so before we discovered the body.”

“You saw her alive?”

“Well, I didn’t actually see her. But I heard her voice.”

“Who’s this George?”

“Another member of the vestry. One of the few remaining.” He glanced over Mike’s shoulder, toward the utility room where the body was found. It was roped off with yellow tape; several technicians were still buzzing around. “I assume the killer shut off the lights.”

“Well, you’d think so. But here’s the interesting thing.” He held up a thick palm-size device. “Know what this is?”

Ben squinted. “Isn’t that one of those gizmos people use to turn their lights on and off while they’re on vacation?”

“You win the Daily Double. Since St. B’s here has a rather old, if not antiquated breaker box, someone was able to plug this doohickey in and use it to shut off the lights-at a predetermined time.”

“So the killer didn’t have to be in the utility room when the lights went off?”

“You got it. The lady was probably already dead when everything went black. Which enlarges our pool of suspects from the handful of people on the premises when the body was discovered to, basically, everyone on earth.”

Ben’s lips tightened. “That’s just… dandy.”

“Yeah. Well, I’ve got work to do.”

“Mike, if you learn anything important-please call.”

“I doubt if Mr. Canelli would appreciate me helping out his sworn adversary.”

“But you will anyway, right?”

Mike sighed. “I suppose. But do me one favor, okay?”

“What’s that?”

“Stop inviting me to visit your church. This place is way too dangerous for me.” He pushed his fists into his pockets and headed back toward the utility room. “Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, All in the valley of Death…”

Chapter 24

Canelli’s opening argument began, no surprise, with a gory, no-holds-barred description of the death of Kate McGuire. It was a well-established fact, or so prosecutors believed, that if you can make the crime seem vile enough, the jury will vote to convict, basically, anyone. What did surprise Ben was how often Canelli managed to work Father Beale’s name into what was supposed to be a nonargumentative recitation of the facts.

“Daniel Beale was officiating at the wedding. Daniel Beale argued with Kate McGuire minutes before she was killed. The body was found in Daniel Beale’s office. Her blood was on Daniel Beale’s hands. Ladies and gentlemen, there is no question about what happened. The only question is-what are you going to do about it?”

Getting a bit argumentative, Ben noted, but it was too soon to object. It’s not like he was telling the jury anything they didn’t already know. The prosecutor wants you to convict. Big surprise.

“We will call to the stand numerous witnesses,” Canelli continued, “both inside the church and outside, who will testify about the enormous anger and enmity Daniel Beale had for all members of the vestry, but especially for Kate McGuire-anger which revealed itself in repeated displays of temper. Threats were made, violent promises. Promises that were ultimately fulfilled in the most heinous way possible.

“We will also call to the stand expert witnesses-the police officers who investigated the scene and the forensic experts who tested the evidence. Each of these witnesses will tell you the same thing. That Daniel Beale committed this crime. That it was him and could have been no other. That the violent promises he made were fulfilled with deadly certainty.”

Getting a bit poetic on us, Mr. Canelli? Apparently he’d put some extra time and effort into this opening. A bad sign for the defense. Because if he put this much time into the opening, Ben could only imagine what he’d planned for the rest of the trial.

Canelli finished at the end of the predetermined half hour, and Christina rose and introduced herself to the jury. Ben had assigned opening to her, in part to save closing for himself, and in part because he knew she would get the defense off to a good start with the jury. People trusted Christina; she came off friendly and honest-because she was. They recognized that her job was to defend the accused, but they also got a strong sense that she believed what she was saying-an all too rare circumstance for criminal lawyers.

“Most of what the prosecutor has told you is true,” she said, right off the bat. “He’s exaggerated and melodramatized it, but his facts are essentially accurate. But does the fact that the body was found in Father Beale’s office prove he’s the killer? Of course not. Doesn’t look good, but it doesn’t prove he committed murder. Certainly not beyond a reasonable doubt. The evidence presented in this courtroom will demonstrate that there are many other possibilities, and most important, that Father Beale did not commit this horrible crime.

“The prosecutor has made much of the fact that the body was found in Father Beale’s office, but consider-if you’re going to kill someone, is it smart to do it in your own office? On a day when literally hundreds of people will be in the church? Though the prosecutor wants you to believe Father Beale is a killer, he has never suggested that Father Beale is stupid. But let’s face it-that would be a stupid thing to do. It only makes sense if the killer was someone else. Someone who wanted to throw suspicion on Father Beale.”

Ben couldn’t help but take pride in what a good job Christina was doing. Not that he had anything to do with it. She’d been around lawyers for so many years, it was only natural that she’d pick up a few skill points. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of a surge when he saw what an outstanding presentation she was making. Straightforward but not boring. Effective but not overreaching. Damn near perfect, really. And she’d had her license less than a year.

“The prosecutor talked about Father Beale’s horrible temper, suggesting that this murder might’ve been the product of his rage. But the evidence will show that at no time did Father Beale, even in the most heated of arguments, strike anyone or harm them physically. There’s a big difference between having a shoutfest at a meeting and strangling a woman over your desk. No witness called by either side will ever testify that he was physically violent. Sure, he had disagreements with the governing body of the church. Some of them serious. Frankly, that’s not unusual. Is it a credible motive for murder? Do we believe someone would kill a woman just to silence her opinion about church matters? I couldn’t believe that of the lowest life-form on earth. And I certainly can’t believe it of Father Beale.”

She turned slightly, compelling the jurors to look at the defendant. “We’re not going to be asking for any favors based upon the fact that the accused is a priest. But we will ask you to consider the man, the person who sits at that table. As the evidence will show, he has no history of violence. To the contrary, he has only a history of selfless devotion, both to the world and to God. He has given most of his life to projects benefiting others, important social and religious causes. And we’re supposed to believe that man suddenly became a cold-blooded killer-over some church dispute? Is that credible?”

She was, of course, doing exactly what Canelli had tried to circumvent, arguing-He’s a priest! Therefore, he’s a good guy, not a bad guy. But she was doing it so intelligently, and weaving in so much legal jargon, it was impossible for the DA to object.

“My partner will talk to you about this later,” Christina continued, “and so will the judge, but it’s worth reminding you, while we talk of possibilities and probabilities, that you have not been called here to guess about what happened. You have been called to listen to the prosecution’s theory, to hear their evidence, and to answer one question-Have they proved their case beyond a reasonable doubt? If not, if doubts remain, then you must vote to acquit. It is not optional. The burden of proof is entirely on the prosecution. And if they do not meet it, then you must vote not guilty.”

She stepped closer to them. “But I don’t think it will come to that. Because the prosecution’s case, as you will see, is full of holes. And Father Beale is not a murderer. My partner and I know that. And at the conclusion of this trial, I believe you will, too. That’s why you’ll vote not guilty.”

Christina took her seat. Father Beale looked pleased; Ben gave her an under-the-table thumbs-up.

Judge Pitcock banged his gavel. “Mr. Canelli, you may call your first witness.”

And so the trial for Father Beale’s life began.

Chapter 25

The Gospel According to Daniel

It is a strange phenomenon, hearing people you know, people you love even, talk about you as if you were not present, even though they know perfectly well that you are. It is strange-and painful-watching them studiously avoid making eye contact, even as they say your name and talk about you at length. One always likes to imagine that one’s acquaintances think well of them, and that when they are not present, they make warm and heartfelt compliments on your behalf. One fantasizes about being present at one’s own funeral, like Tom Sawyer, and seeing friends and acquaintances, prostrate with grief, declaring the deceased to be “the finest man I have ever known.”

My experience in court was somewhat different.

I was aware, of course, that many of my parishioners would be testifying for the prosecution, and I did not take it personally. I knew they had been subpoenaed, in the main, and that they would only be providing bits of circumstantial evidence, telling what they had seen and heard, and letting the prosecutor run with it as he would. They were fulfilling their duty to the state, just as I fulfilled my duty to God, I rationalized. No harm could come of that.

Again, I was a fool.

I knew there were strong feelings about me at the church, and I knew that many of them were unkind. I had heard impassioned arguments at meeting after meeting. I had watched in tears as almost every member of my congregation rose and walked out of the sanctuary, refusing to take communion from me. But to say these things in a public forum-in a court of law, no less-where their priest is literally on trial for his life? That was a development for which I was unprepared. Nothing could possibly have prepared me for that.

Perhaps optimism really is a disease, as Nietzsche suggested. Perhaps I was infected, and deep down I believed, or wanted to believe, that it would be my own flock that saved me. Whatever the reason, I simply wasn’t prepared for it when they appeared, not in the role of saviors, but of executioners.

“How would you describe the defendant’s disagreements with the vestry, ma’am?”

“I would describe them as murderous.” Ruth O’Connell clutched at her handbag. “Many a time I thought to myself, if that man had a knife in his hand, he’d kill every one of us.”

“Objection!” Ben said rising to his feet. “Move to strike.”

“The objection will be sustained,” Judge Pitcock said. “Mr. Canelli, please instruct your witness to stick to factual matters. Without elaboration.”

“Yes, your honor. Of course. Sorry.”

Despite his words, Ben saw very little regret in the prosecutor’s countenance. He’d managed to get his witness to use the M word, a prosecution victory by any measure.

“Could you give us an example, Mrs. O’Connell?”

“At one vestry meeting, he became so enraged at Helen Conrad that he rose out of his chair shouting, his face flushed red with anger, banging the table and threatening.”

“And what exactly was the threat?”

“He said that if she didn’t stop making these petty attacks, he’d stop them himself.” She paused meaningfully. “Of course, only a few weeks later, she-”

“Objection, your honor,” Ben said. “Are we going to have a mistrial this early in the game?” The judge had declared before trial that, since this case was concerned with the murder of Kate McGuire, there would be no mention of the murder that came before, or the murder that came after.

“No, we are not.” Pitcock looked at Canelli sternly. “Counsel, if you can’t control your witness, I’ll excuse her from the courtroom.”

“Yes, your honor. Of course. Again, I’m sorry.” Canelli spent the next two hours eliciting sordid stories from Ruth about Father Beale’s hot-tempered relations with the vestry. She cataloged every perceived grievance, every run-in with any member of the church. Canelli drew it all out with fervor. They were like two old gossips at a sewing bee; they acted as if every little tidbit pained them, but they told them all, just the same. Ben objected time and again, on grounds of hearsay or lack of foundation or whatever, and most of his objections were sustained, but Canelli still got the gist of the matter across to the jury. And the gist was-Father Beale had a serious temper, and he frequently vented it on the vestry.

At long last they came to the afternoon of the murder.

“I was at the church on behalf of the ECW,” Ruth explained. “To help with the wedding. I assisted the bride with the preparation of her attire, just before the service began.”

“And what did you do after that?”

“I walked down the main corridor toward the staff offices. But before I got there, I heard a thunderous voice I knew all too well.”

“And who was that?”

“Father Beale, of course.” She glanced at the jury. “He was arguing with Kate McGuire.”

“What did they argue about?”

“I couldn’t tell. Frankly, I was all too used to it. I just couldn’t stand it anymore. Mentally tuned it out. But I could tell he was angry. And he was threatening her.”

“How so?”

“I heard him say he wasn’t going to allow her to get in his way, or something like that.”

“And what did you take that to mean?”

“Objection,” Ben said. It was getting wearisome. Canelli was forcing him to object, which would make him the bad guy “suppressing the truth” in the eyes of many jurors. “She’s on the stand to provide facts, not characterization.”

Judge Pitcock nodded. “The objection is sustained.”

“Were you the only one who witnessed this fight in the hallway, Mrs. O’Connell?”

“Not even close. There were many people watching-including Father Beale’s lawyer.” She pointed at Ben. “He saw more of it than I did.”

Ben felt the heat of collective eyes turning on him. Thanks so much, Ruth.

“Very interesting.” Canelli made what Ben knew was a meaningless check mark in his outline, just to accentuate the moment for the jury. “What did you do after the argument?”

“I returned to the sanctuary for the service.”

“Did you know the couple being married?”

“No, but I knew Dr. Masterson would be playing from Widor’s Fifth, and I love that piece. So I took a seat in the back and listened. After the service, I wandered out of the sanctuary.”

“Did you see anything of interest?”

“Oh, yes. Just a minute or two after the bride filed out, I saw Father Beale entering his office. At the other end of the corridor. I thought nothing of it at the time, but it later became significant. After we found Kate’s dead body in the very same office.”

“Yes. Very significant indeed. Thank you, ma’am.” Canelli glanced at Ben. “Your witness, counsel.”

Ben rose to his feet, thinking as he walked to the podium. He had decided not to touch the subject of the strife with the vestry. Those bad feelings existed, as even Father Beale would admit; there was no point in denying it. For that matter, there was no point in denying that Beale had a temper, or that he argued with Kate McGuire shortly before the wedding. But it was just possible he could do something with that last attempt to place Father Beale at the crime scene at the very moment the forensic experts would later declare to be the time of death.

“Mrs. O’Connell, are you sure the person you saw enter the office was Father Beale?”

“Of course I am. I think I should recognize my own priest.”

“Were you wearing your glasses?”

Her head twitched a jot. “Glasses?”

“That’s my question. Because, as you pointed out to the jury, I was there, and I don’t recall seeing you wear them. In fact, I don’t recall ever seeing you wear them.”

She drew herself up. “I don’t need glasses. You shouldn’t assume that just because a woman is elderly-”

“Mrs. O’Connell, I have here a copy of your drivers’ license records.” He glanced up. “Good record, by the way. No tickets for the last thirty years. But they do mention that you’re supposed to wear corrective lenses when you drive.”

“Well… that’s different. When I’m driving, I do wear-”

“So I assume you’re nearsighted.” She did not answer immediately. “Am I right?”

“I suppose that is… technically correct.”

“You don’t see clearly things that are far away.”

“They may get a trifle fuzzy. But I can still-”

“Mrs. O’Connell, how long is the corridor at St. Benedict’s that connects the narthex to the staff offices?”

“I don’t know. Twenty feet or so.”

“It’s fifty-five feet, actually,” Ben said. “I measured it myself. And if there’s any doubt about this in the prosecutor’s mind, I can ask the judge to take judicial notice of the floor plans, which my partner Ms. McCall was good enough to bring.” He paused. “Now, Mrs. O’Connell. Fifty-five feet-that’s a good long ways, isn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t-”

“If you were driving, would you be able to see clearly something that was fifty-five feet away? Without your glasses?”

“I know what Father Beale looks like. Even if he’s a trifle fuzzy.”

“You admit he was fuzzy. So when you say you saw Father Beale, what you’re really saying is you saw someone you thought looked kinda sorta like Father Beale.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t-and didn’t-but it would be more accurate than what you did say.”

“Objection,” Canelli said. “He’s getting argumentative.”

Judge Pitcock shrugged. “It’s cross-examination. I’ll allow it.”

Ben continued. “What you’re really saying, Mrs. O’Connell, is that you saw someone who you took for Father Beale.”

“I know what I saw. The man had gray-white hair and a beard-”

“So it could’ve been Alvin Greene.”

Ruth paused a moment. “I don’t-”

“He has gray hair. And a beard. Doesn’t he?”

“I don’t recall whether Alvin was there.”

“He was. As leader of the Altar Guild, he has to be at all major functions, to prepare and to clean up afterward. But you know that even better than I do, don’t you, Mrs. O’Connell?”

“I suppose.”

“For that matter, on several occasions I’ve noticed a homeless man sleeping in the prayer garden at St. Benedict’s. I’m sure you’ve noticed him, too, Mrs. O’Connell-since you introduced a motion at the last vestry meeting to have him forcibly removed.”

“It’s not an appropriate image for a church…”

“Come to think of it-that poor homeless man has gray hair, too, doesn’t he? And a beard. Well, stubble, really. But still.”

Ruth began to get indignant. “Mr. Kincaid, I could not possibly mistake a homeless man for my priest! Their faces are nothing alike.”

“Ah, but you didn’t see the face, did you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You testified that you saw a man entering the office. But the front door to the office suite faces north. You were at the north end of the corridor. That tells me that, at best, all you saw was the man’s back.”

“Well… I…”

“Come to think of it, Father Beale and Alvin Greene look a lot alike-from the back. Don’t they? For that matter, Father Beale and a whole lot of people probably look the same from the back.”

“You’re wrong. You’re twisting-”

“I’m not convinced you even saw a gray head and beard. At that distance, I don’t think you could tell whether someone was actually entering the office suite. I think you saw someone’s back and subsequently filled in the details to make it Father Beale because, consciously or unconsciously, you wanted to incriminate him.”

“You don’t know-”

“The truth is, ma’am, you couldn’t possibly know with any degree of certainty who you saw, not at that distance with your vision. Studies have shown that eyewitness testimony is inherently unreliable; in controlled experiments, test results from eyewitnesses are barely more accurate than if the witnesses were just guessing. What you’ve done is called unconscious transference. The mind drafts a familiar face to play a role that could not otherwise be cast based upon the available information.”

Canelli rose to his feet. “Is Mr. Kincaid giving expert testimony now?”

Ben ignored him. “You only decided the man you saw was Father Beale-after the murder was discovered-because that’s who you wanted it to be. Because, as you told the jury in great detail, you and the rest of the vestry strongly despise him and have been trying everything possible to get rid of him.”

“That’s not true! I mean, that’s not why-”

“So you say, but how else can you explain giving a positive identification from a distance where your vision simply makes it impossible that you could be sure of anything?”

Ruth had no answer. She clutched her handbag and stared at the floor.

After Ruth was dismissed and court was on a ten-minute recess, the defense team took its first huddle.

Christina gave Ben a high five. “Nice job, killer. You totally blew that meddling crone out of the water.”

Father Beale agreed. “I have to admit, you were quite effective.”

“I had to undermine that ID,” Ben explained. “It was too convenient, given the time of death the coroner will later establish.”

“But I worry about you, Ben,” Beale continued. “The position you’re in. Your job virtually requires you to humiliate people. To make them look like fools and liars.”

Ben felt a burning in his cheeks. “We’re trying to get at the truth.”

“Right. And Ruth was mistaken in her identification. You made that clear. But at what cost to her personally? Am I to be saved only by destroying others? Is that what Jesus would do?”

“No,” Christina said, “but as I recall, Jesus’ trial didn’t turn out so hot.”

“I’m not going to let you martyr yourself,” Ben added, “if that’s what you’re thinking. We’ll do everything possible to fight this thing. Even if it means embarrassing a few people on the witness stand.”

“I know that,” Beale said. “You misunderstand. I’m not concerned about the effect of this trial on me.” He turned, adjusting his eyes to meet Ben’s. “I’m concerned about the effect of this trial on you.”

Chapter 26

“And what did you see when you entered the church, Sergeant?”

The slim, square-jawed man with perfect posture cleared his throat. “A large crowd of people huddled in the foyer just outside a suite of offices.”

“And who were these people?”

“As I learned subsequently, most of them were either attending or participating in a wedding.”

“What did you do next?”

“I proceeded through the crowd and made my way to the offices. Following the pointed fingers of some of the spectators, I found a large office in the rear. I went inside.”

“And what did you find?”

The man’s emotionless expression didn’t waver, although Ben detected just the slightest tremor in his voice. “I found the body of Kate McGuire sprawled across a desk, her dress hiked up around her waist. Blood was caked and smeared across the side of her face. Her skin was a pale blue. She was obviously dead.”

“Was there a name on the door to this office?”

He nodded solemnly. “Father Daniel Beale.”

As Ben well knew, Sergeant Cooper had been the first officer on the scene after the police were called. Mike showed up about fifteen minutes later, but before then, it was Cooper’s show.

Christina whispered into Ben’s ear. “Should we object? He couldn’t possibly be certain she was dead just by looking at her.”

“To what end? She was dead, and everyone here knows it. An objection would only irritate the jurors.”

That was the last thing Ben wanted to do, especially at this stage. He had been at the scene, after all, and he knew Cooper had conducted himself and the preliminary investigation in a professional by-the-book manner. Ben didn’t like what he knew the man would say next, but making a lot of objections would only highlight it in the jurors’ minds.

A few minutes later, Cooper described his first encounter with Father Beale. “I found him by himself, in one of the small Sunday school rooms in the opposite corridor. He was on his knees. His face was red and streaked; he appeared to have been crying.”

“What did you do?”

“I lifted the man to his feet, read him his rights, and attempted to question him.”

“Attempted?”

“Yes, and not very successfully. He seemed confused, dazed, as if he had just-”

“Objection,” Ben said. “The witness is here to provide facts, not to speculate.”

Judge Pitcock agreed. “Sustained.”

Sergeant Cooper resumed. “I wasn’t able to get any clear answers out of him. He was not cooperative.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about the defendant at this time? About his appearance?”

“Yes. Blood.” Cooper drew in his breath, extending his ramrod back even higher. “He had spots of blood on his robe. Some in his beard. And under his fingernails. He had tried to wash it off in the bathroom before the police arrived. But he missed some of it.”

Ben watched as the jurors looked at one another. The importance of that detail was not lost on them.

“Did anything else happen, Sergeant?” Canelli asked.

“Not really. Soon after that, Major Morelli from Homicide arrived and he took over the investigation.”

“Thank you. That’s all I have for this witness.”

Ben strode to the podium. There were few things on earth less appealing than cross-examining a witness you knew was essentially telling the truth. Unlike some defense attorneys, Ben didn’t go in for trying to make the police look like bumbling idiots. Still, there were a few points he needed to drive home.

“Sergeant, you are aware, aren’t you, that Father Beale told the police he found the victim already dead when he returned to his office after the wedding? That he approached the victim to see if she was dead.”

“I heard that, yes.”

“In fact, you heard it from Father Beale, that very same day, when he explained the circumstances to Major Morelli, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell the jury about that?”

Cooper didn’t blink. “I wasn’t asked.”

“You didn’t think it was important?”

“I wasn’t asked.”

Ben had to hand it to the man; he was a rock. “I suppose the prosecution was being selective about what information they wanted the jury to have.”

“Objection!” Canelli said.

“Sustained,” Pitcock said. “Counsel, let’s have the questions without the commentary, okay?”

“Yes, your honor.” Ben resumed questioning. “If Father Beale felt the body for a pulse, perhaps even moved the body, it’s certainly possible that he might get some of the blood on him, isn’t it?”

“It’s possible.”

“In fact, it’s more than likely, isn’t it? It’s probable.”

“As I said, it’s possible.”

“Later in the day, you were part of the team that assisted in moving the body to the medical examiner’s hearse, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get blood on yourself?”

“Some. It was mostly dried by that time.”

“Did you wash it off?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

Cooper looked at Ben as if he were dumber than ditchwater. “I would wash my hands any time I came into contact with foreign bodily substances.”

“Understood. You did the natural thing.” Ben glanced at the jury. “And Father Beale did the same exact natural thing when he washed his hands, didn’t he?”

“If you say so.”

Cooper was too smart to get caught up in an argument he couldn’t win. Too bad.

“Now, let’s talk about your interrogation, Sergeant. You said you discovered Father Beale on his knees crying, right?”

“Right.”

“Is it possible he was praying?”

“His eyes were wet-”

“And he was on his knees. Is it possible he was praying?”

Cooper resisted. “It seems unlikely to me that-”

“That a priest would be praying?”

Cooper released his breath. “Okay. It’s possible.”

“You complained to the jury that, at first, Father Beale was confused and had trouble answering questions. Of course, the man had just discovered a woman he knew well-a member of his own parish-dead on his desk. Is it really surprising that he might be a bit confused? Not in a chatty mood?”

“It seemed to me he was not being cooperative.”

“Sergeant Cooper, if you had just discovered the dead and bloody body of someone you knew sprawled across the judge’s bench, do you think you’d feel like playing twenty questions?”

The sergeant’s lips pursed. “Possibly not.”

“But Father Beale did in fact answer questions shortly thereafter, when Major Morelli was on the scene, right? He answered all questions put to him, several times over, right?”

“As far as I know.”

“Thank you. That’s all I have.”

The prosecution called several other police officers who had been at the scene of the crime and a few other vestry members from St. Benedict’s, but for the most part they just rehashed what had been said before. By the afternoon, Canelli had moved to his more specialized witnesses.

“What did you do when the body arrived at your office, Doctor?”

The young man in the white coat leaned forward eagerly. “I performed a full-length autopsy, as is traditional in cases of violent death.”

“Did you notice anything unusual?”

“Other than the fact that she was dead?” He grinned, as if he thought he’d made a rare witticism. “There were two obvious signs of violence-a blow to the side of the head, and strangle marks around the neck.”

“So what did you do?”

“I ran a serious of tests, examining the depth and impact of the blow to the head, examining the lungs for air, that sort of thing.”

“And what did you determine?”

“The cause of death was asphyxiation.”

“And is that your scientific conclusion?”

“Yes.”

“To a medical certainty?”

“Yes. I’m as certain about this as I am about death, taxes, and heavy rainfall right after I wash my car.”

The medical examiner grinned, but alas, once again his humor fell flat. There just wasn’t anything funny about being a coroner, Ben thought, as he watched the hapless performance from the defense table, although Bob Barkley didn’t appear to have figured that out yet. Ben still couldn’t get over having this geeky, hyper twenty-something (who looked younger) as the state medical examiner. After years of the stern and serious Dr. Koregai, Coroner Bob was a startling contrast. Koregai had always believed forensic science was a pathway to higher truths; Bob seemed to think it was a good way to meet girls.

“Can you offer any testimony regarding the time of death?” Canelli asked.

“Yes, more accurate than in most cases, in fact, since the body was discovered so soon after the murder took place. I measured the internal body temperature and examined the contents of the victim’s stomach. I estimated the time of death at about two-fifteen, which I’m told is almost immediately after the wedding ended.”

“You mentioned strangle marks earlier. Could you tell the jury what that means?”

“Finger imprints. Deep impressions around the victim’s throat. Still discernible, even at the time I got the body in my office. Because the blood stops circulating after death sets in, the bruises tend to linger. They weren’t clear enough to take fingerprints or anything, but they were definitely present.”

“So the killer strangled the victim by physically applying his hands to her throat? By choking her to death?”

“That’s correct.”

“That would require a strong man, wouldn’t it?” All heads in the jury turned to scrutinize Father Beale’s six-foot-two frame.

“I would think so.”

“Was the body moved?”

“Absolutely not. There were no indications of movement whatsoever. Not until the police arrived. The victim was DRT, as the cops say. Dead Right There.”

“So the murder took place… in Father Beale’s office?”

“That’s correct.”

“Shortly after Father Beale finished officiating the wedding?”

“Evidently so.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” He glanced at the defense table. “Your witness.”

Ben gave Christina a little push. “Go for it.”

She frowned nervously. “Should I mess with all the technical forensic stuff?”

“Only if you enjoy public mortification.”

“Then-?”

“Physical strength.”

Christina grabbed her legal pad. “Got it. Anything else?”

He shook his head. “Make your point and sit down. Experts are dangerous.”

Christina squared herself behind the podium. “Good afternoon, Dr. Barkley.”

“Hey-ya, Chrissy. I like what you’ve done with your hair.”

“Well… thanks.”

“Have you got plans Friday night?”

Christina chose to ignore him. “You testified that the murderer would have to be a big man possessed of serious physical strength to strangle the victim to death.”

“Well, I doubt if she would just sit still and let someone do it to her for fun.”

“But it’s possible the murderer held the victim in an awkward position, isn’t it? Pinned her down in a way that made struggling impossible.”

“I saw no evidence of that.”

“If the assailant was hovering over her, and had her pinned against the desk, he or she would have a natural advantage, right?”

“I suppose.”

“You also testified that the victim suffered a serious blow to the head.”

“That’s true.”

“Is it possible that the blow came before the strangulation?”

Bob tilted his head. “It seems more likely that-”

“You’re not answering my question, Doctor. Is it possible that the blow to the head came first?”

“I can’t rule it out.”

“And if the blow came first, the victim, a young woman weighing one hundred twelve pounds, might well have been stunned. Even knocked unconscious.”

“There’s no way I can accurately predict that.”

“But it is possible? Someone hits you on the head-you’re stunned.”

“It’s possible.”

“At any rate, she wouldn’t be feeling her best. In top strength.”

“No.”

“And if she was somewhat incapacitated, strangling her would be a lot easier, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, though it would still require some strength.”

Christina held out her hands and clenched her fists. “Well, I’ve got a pretty good grip. Could I have done it?”

Bob smiled slightly. “I wouldn’t put anything past you.”

“For that matter, my twelve-year-old nephew has a better grip than I do. He knocks the baseball out of the park every time. Could he have done it?”

Bob began to squirm. “I suppose if the victim were stunned, it’s possible…”

“The truth is, under those circumstances, almost anyone could’ve committed this crime, right?”

Bob shrugged his shoulders. “If the victim was stunned…”

“So in fact, this prosecution evidence not only doesn’t indicate Father Beale was the murderer, it doesn’t exclude much of anyone!”

Canelli rose to his feet. “Is this a question, your honor? Because it sounds a lot like closing argument.”

“I’ll withdraw it,” Christina said. “I think I’ve made my point. No more questions.”

Christina slid into her seat at the counsel table beside Ben. “How’d I do?”

“Great. Except for the part where you clenched your hands and suggested that you could’ve been the murderer. You shouldn’t give the cops ideas. You were at the wedding, after all, and they hate lawyers.”

She blanched. “You think they might accuse me?”

He patted her hand reassuringly. “Of course not. Going after a priest is one thing. But no one’s stupid enough to mess with you.”

Chapter 27

By late afternoon, Ben knew everyone, jury included, tended to get a bit sleepy-eyed. For that reason, experienced trial lawyers typically arranged to have their least important witnesses on at that time, or to finish up early so their opponent would be cross-examining when the jury was least attentive.

That being so, Ben was surprised that an experienced trial hand like Canelli would call an expert witness this late in the day. Perhaps Canelli’s theory was that establishing an expert witness’s credentials was so boring the jury might as well be catching a few z’s while he went through this tedious but legally necessary procedure.

And thus the afternoon was graced with the wit and wisdom of Dr. Miguel Valero-prosecution hair expert.

Christina listened to his professional history with amazement. “He’s spent fourteen years studying… hair?” she whispered.

Ben nodded. “A tough job, but someone’s got to do it.”

Her forehead crinkled. “Why?”

Valero was a heavy-set man with florid, fleshy face. He wore solid black-shirt, slacks, coat, and tie. During direct, he established that he had a degree in forensic sciences and that he had devoted the majority of his professional career to the scientific examination and classification of hair, its characteristics and identifying traits. According to him, he had spent ten thousand hours over the past decade and a half studying hairs and was considered one of the leading experts in the field.

“Dr. Valero,” Canelli asked, once his credentials were finally established, “would you please explain to the jury how you became involved in this case?”

Valero cleared his throat and shifted around in the smallish wooden chair. “One of the hair and fiber crime scene techs discovered a stray hair on the victim’s body-in the wound, actually-that did not appear, on visual analysis, to have come from the victim. So I was asked to investigate.”

“And did you?”

“Of course.”

“Could you please explain how you go about your analysis?”

Valero turned slightly toward the jury. “Well, the first thing I do is get the hair under a microscope. To the naked eye, a shaft of hair is so thin it’s difficult to discern any identifying characteristics. Under the microscope, however, a shaft of hair is two inches wide. That’s a whole different ball game. At that magnification, you can start classifying and identifying.”

“What do you do first?”

“The traditional first step in hair classification is to determine which racial group the hair came from-Caucasian, Negroid, or Mongoloid. This is a relatively simple procedure. Next we establish what part of the body the hair came from-scalp, pubis, or limbs. That’s not much harder.”

“And after that?”

“Then the work gets a bit more complicated. We consider color, thickness, texture, and any other available characteristics of identification. In this case, I had a hair exemplar that was taken from the defendant after he was arrested. I was able to put it under the microscope and compare it with the hair found on the victim.”

“And did you reach a conclusion?”

“I did. The hair taken from the victim is consistent in all respects with the hair taken from Daniel Beale.”

“In other words,” Canelli summed, “the hair on the dead body came from the defendant.”

“That would be the obvious conclusion, yes.”

“Thank you. I pass the witness.”

Ben placed his hand on Christina’s shoulder. “I’ll take this one.”

“Suit yourself. Don’t you hate experts?”

“I’m looking forward to this one.”

Father Beale leaned sideways to whisper into Ben’s ear. “Am I to be convicted based upon the testimony of a hair?”

Ben gathered his CX papers. “Not if I can help it.”

“This is right out of the Gospel According to Matthew. ‘But the very hairs of your head are all numbered.’ That’s what it says. I never understood what it meant, though. Until now.”

Ben crossed to the podium and launched right in. “Dr. Valero, you weren’t involved in the initial gathering of evidence, right?”

“That’s true.”

“And you don’t know how that hair got on the victim, do you?”

“Well, the obvious way would be when the killer-”

“I didn’t ask you to speculate, Doctor. I asked if you know.”

“No, of course not.”

“Isn’t it possible she picked up the hair from the desk? I mean, she was on Father Beale’s desk.”

“I think it unlikely that-”

“How much hair does the average person shed in the course of a day?”

“Well, it’s hard to say precisely-”

“But it’s a lot, right? People shed hair constantly. There might have been dozens of his hairs on that desk.”

“That’s true. But may I remind you that the hair was found on the front of her neck, in the wound? She was lying on her back. Any hairs from the desk would’ve been found on her back.”

“All you know is that she was on her back when she died. You don’t know how many other positions she might’ve been in before she died, right?”

“The coroner said the body was not moved.”

“If Father Beale approached the body, say, to feel for a pulse, or to administer last rites, he might’ve left the hair then, right?”

“I think that unlikely. The hair was in the wound.”

“But you can’t eliminate the possibility.”

“I can say I think it unlikely in the extreme.”

“But you can’t eliminate the possibility.”

“I suppose it is remotely possible. Remotely.”

Ben turned a page in his notes. “Let’s move on to your so-called identification. Dr. Valero, let’s be honest with the jury. Hair identification isn’t what you would call an exact science, is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, it isn’t the same as fingerprints or DNA, right?”

Valero appeared puzzled and mildly miffed. “Again, I’m unsure…”

“If you match fingerprints, that’s a positive identification. But hair analysis is a good deal more… squishy, isn’t it?”

“Not in my opinion.”

“Isn’t it true that hair characteristics are not uniform?”

“There are occasionally some variances.”

Ben lowered his chin. “Dr. Valero. Let’s talk turkey. Isn’t it true that two hairs pulled from the same head still might not match one another?”

Valero squirmed slightly. “It is possible. Especially among older subjects.”

“Like Father Beale, who is fifty-seven. Isn’t it also true that some people have so-called featureless hair that is very hard to distinguish?”

“Yes, but the defendant is not one of them. His hair had many identifying characteristics.”

“Such as?”

“You want a list?”

“That would be dandy.”

“Well… that could take some time.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Doctor. I think we’re all interested to hear what you say. Because to me, and to most people, a hair pretty much looks like a hair.”

Valero cleared his throat. “Well… the hair found on the victim was Caucasian.”

“Okay. That narrows the suspect pool down to half a billion people or so.”

“And there is color, of course.”

“You’re telling me you identified this hair as coming from Father Beale based upon the color?”

Beads of sweat glistened on Valero’s forehead. “As I recall, there was also a distinctive curl.”

“Excuse me, Doctor. Did you say curl?”

“Yes.”

Ben cranked his voice up. “Are you telling me you identified my client as a killer, that you publicly accused him of murder, based on a curl?”

“That wasn’t the only…”

“What percentage of the population has this so-called distinctive curl?”

“I couldn’t really say.”

“Because there’s no reliable library of information on curls, right? Because no objective expert would ever suggest that a shaft of hair could be traced back to its source by its curl!”

“There was also the color.”

Ben didn’t let up. “So you’re saying you made this brilliant ID based upon the gray color and the curl. Tell me, doctor-how many people have gray hair with a little curl in it? Couple hundred million or so?”

“I couldn’t say…”

“Because you don’t care, right? You just took two flimsy similarities and turned them into a positive ID.”

“I only said that the hairs were consistent.”

“When you get right down to it, you didn’t say much of anything, did you?”

Canelli rose out of his chair. “I object, your honor. This is becoming abusive.”

“I agree,” Ben replied. “But the abuse is being perpetrated by the prosecution. They’re trying to buttress their weak case with junk science.”

“That is not true!”

Judge Pitcock glared at them. “Both of you, approach. And don’t say another word until you’re up here.”

At the bench, Ben lowered his voice, parked his righteous indignation, and continued the argument. “Your honor, this hair evidence is flimsier than Kleenex. This does not meet the standard set forth by the U.S. Supreme Court in Daubert versus Merrill Dow Pharmaceuticals.”

“I’ve already briefed this,” Canelli said wearily.

“Right,” Ben continued, “but how could we possibly evaluate your arguments until we heard how weak your evidence really was? Your honor, the Supreme Court left it to trial judges to act as gatekeepers, barring entry to junk science. If we allow baloney like this in the courtroom, how can we expect jurors to distinguish between real science like fingerprints and this sort of bogus poppycock? This whole line of testimony should be excluded.”

“I am concerned about the reliability of this evidence,” Pitcock said, fingering his lower lip.

Excellent! Ben thought silently. And I didn’t even have to whine about the sanctity of the family.

“But I’m not prepared to exclude it altogether.”

“Your honor,” Ben said, “this is a lot of hooey!”

“Which you’re doing a rather good job of pointing out on cross-examination. Tenuous as it is, I think it does meet the Daubert standard, and you can and will point out any failings in methodology during your cross. Let’s continue, gentlemen.”

Close, but no cigar. Ben returned to the podium and relaunched his attack. “Dr. Valero, isn’t it true that even amongst so-called ‘hair experts,’ there is no consensus on the criteria for making comparisons such as the one you just made under oath to this jury?”

Valero’s expression grew more pensive. “It seems you’ve done your homework, Mr. Kincaid.”

“I try. So what about it?”

“There… is some dispute about methodology and matching criteria.”

“In fact, despite several efforts, no one has ever been able to set up a national data bank for hairs-like the ones existing for fingerprints and DNA-because there’s no agreement on the criteria.”

“I’m afraid that’s also true.”

“And therefore it’s impossible for you to say with any reliability whether a characteristic in a hair is common or rare, right?”

“I have been examining hair for fourteen years. I’ve examined hundreds of thousands-”

“And you still haven’t seen one one-millionth of one percent of all the hairs in this country. Which means you have a grossly low statistical base for drawing any conclusions.”

“That’s your opinion, not mine.”

“Are you familiar with a proficiency testing program conducted by the U.S. Law Enforcement Assistance Administration on hair analysis a few years ago?”

Valero pursed his lips. “Yes.”

“That’s good,” Ben said, opening a folder, “because I happen to have a copy of their report right here. In a controlled and monitored experiment, they sent hair samples to a variety of labs and experts. The error rates on five different samples ranged from fifty to sixty-eight percent. That’s an error rate of more than half.”

“True.”

“In other words, the prosecution would be better off just flipping a coin than getting one of you so-called hair experts to deliver your expert opinion.”

Canelli jumped up. “Your honor, I’m offended by that remark.”

“You know what offends me?” Ben shot back. “I’m offended by the fact that the prosecution knows this evidence is unreliable, but they try to get it in anyway because they assume the jury won’t be bright enough to see it for the junk it is!”

“This is not the time for speechifying, Mr. Kincaid,” Judge Pitcock said. “Did you have any more questions?”

“No,” Ben said, snapping his folder shut. “I’m done with this witness.”

Back at counsel table, Ben consulted with his client. “So, did I get my point across?”

“Oh, yeah,” Father Beale said. “I think you buried him.”

“Like, seriously buried?”

“Like Vesuvius to Pompeii, buried.”

Ben settled into his seat. “Well, he made me mad.”

Beale nodded. “I can only hope every other prosecution witness makes you mad, too.”

Chapter 28

After court adjourned for the day, Ben and Christina began packing up the files that needed to go back to the office. As grueling as a day of trial was, the work did not end when the judge slammed his gavel. Ben knew he’d be up past midnight, reviewing outlines and preparing for the next day’s witnesses.

So who could deny him a moment’s respite? He knew Charlie at the courthouse snack bar always held back a carton of chocolate milk when Ben was in trial. Maybe after a couple of shots of sugar-enriched calcium he’d be energized enough to-

“Excuse me. You the lawyer?”

Ben stopped. “I’m the lawyer representing Father Beale.”

“My name’s Marco Ellison. And I saw something I think can help your guy.”

He was a young man, maybe twenty or so. He had short, spiky peroxided hair and had rings piercing his ears, nose, lower lip, and tongue. In other words, the ideal witness.

“How did you come by this knowledge?”

“I was at the wedding.”

Ben wondered how he could possibly have missed this guy. Maybe he hadn’t been pierced yet. “Okay. And what do you know?”

“Well, for starters, I know your guy didn’t do it.”

Ben edged closer, his eyes widening. He wrapped his hand around the young man’s leather-coated arm. “And how do you know this?”

“ ’Cause I saw him after the wedding ended. I’m not really into all that ‘death us do part’ crapola, so I went outside to the prayer garden for a smoke. And I saw Father Beale come into the garden a few minutes later. He sat for a while. Even got down on his knees and prayed.”

“But he didn’t go to his office?”

“No way. Not at first, anyway. He was in the garden.”

Ben squeezed his arm all the tighter. Could it be-an eyewitness who could place Father Beale somewhere else at the time the prosecution had established as the time of the murder? It was almost too good to be believed. “Why haven’t you told this to the police?”

“I did.”

Ben’s eyes opened all the wider. “You did?”

“Yup. They didn’t seem interested in anything that was going to help the priest. They didn’t even write down my name.”

Ben swore silently. “Would you be willing to testify? In court?”

“Of course. That’s why I came up here.”

“That’s great.” Ben wanted to hug the kid, but he’d probably take it the wrong way. “Give me your address and phone number. I’ll add you to the witness list and call you when it’s time for us to put on our case.”

“Sure. No problem.” The kid gave him the information.

“This is a great thing you’re doing, Marco. A great thing. This could turn the whole trial around.” He paused. “I don’t want to push my luck, but-any chance you could lose the jewelry before you go up on the witness stand?”

“Why? Don’t you want me to look my best?”

“Yeah, to my jurors, whose average age is fifty-five. But never mind. I just want you to be there.” He took Marco’s shoulder again. “This could be the most important thing you do in your entire life.”

That evening, back at the office, Ben gave his client a recap.

“So the kid says he can positively state that you were not in your office at the time of the murder.”

“Well, I wasn’t.”

“I know that. But we didn’t have a witness to say it. Until now.”

“I can say it,” Father Beale said, stroking his beard. “I can speak for myself.”

“Father, I’ve told you this before. I don’t like putting defendants on the stand. It’s too risky. Especially in a capital case.”

“But I would prefer to do it, just the same. I want people to hear about my innocence from my own lips.”

“You don’t know what it’s like up there, Father. Having the DA pound away at you, accusing you of horrible things, twisting your words around, trying to trip you up.”

“I’m an adult, Ben. I can handle myself.”

“I know you can. You’re probably better spoken and more intelligent than most of the people I’ve represented. But there are still risks.”

“Ben-”

“Father Beale, you agreed that I was in charge of this trial, remember?”

“Yes, and I won’t renege on that agreement. But at least think about it, okay?”

“I’ll think about it.” But with a new witness who could put Father Beale in the prayer garden at the time of the murder, Ben knew there was simply no reason to take that risk.

He said good night to Father Beale and watched as the marshals took him back to his cell at the county jail. It was a horrible thing, seeing a man who had done so much for people, who had done so much for Ben, being treated in this manner. It must be an almost unbearable nightmare for him, Ben mused. At his age, his position in life. There had to be some way Ben could put an end to it, once and for all. Some way he could help Father Beale.

Just as the man had helped him, all those years ago.

Although he did not join the acolyte class, the twelve-year-old nihilistic Ben did spend more time at the church after his counseling session with Father Beale. Following the priest’s advice, he had managed to integrate himself into the core group of kids his age. Deep down, he might know that Curran and Conner and Landon and the others would never have included him in their set if they hadn’t all gone to the same church, but as long as he appeared to be one of the gang, what did it matter? Right?

One Sunday after services, Ben and the others were hanging outside the robing room. For some reason, the male acolytes had changed first; now they waited while the only girl in the class, Valerie Beth McKechnie, wiggled out of her heavy black-and-white Anglican robes. Ben was admiring the new stained-glass window, Father Beale’s pride and joy, which he had fund-raised eight years to purchase. The translucent red and blue of the rainbow, the art deco design of the ascending dove…

“So, Kincaid. You gonna touch her titties or not?”

Once again, Ben was glad he’d gotten in with a group of kids who were clearly on a higher spiritual plane. “Shut up, Conner. We’re in church.”

“And so is she, Ben. That’s the point.”

“I’m not going to do anything like that, Conner. Forget it.”

Landon came around on his other side. “C’mon, Ben, you gotta do it. If you wanna be in the club. Everyone else has done it.”

“They have?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, not with Valerie Beth McKechnie. But someone.”

“Yeah, you probably did it with your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister, Kincaid, and it’s a good thing I don’t, or I’d be really pissed off right now.”

“Cool down, Landon,” Curran said. All three of them were surrounding Ben. “Don’t pressure him so much. He just needs some time.”

“She’ll only be in there another minute or two,” Landon said.

“Good point.” Curran took Ben by the shoulders and adjusted his lapel. “So, what do you say, Benny-boy?”

“I say, don’t call me Benny-boy.”

“I mean about Valerie Beth McKechnie.”

“I say, no.”

“Aw, c’mon, Kincaid,” Conner whined. “You wanna be a virgin all your life?”

Thanks to the book Father Beale had given him, Ben was slightly better able to deal with this question than he would’ve been a few weeks ago. “Feeling someone up in the robing room is not going to make me not a virgin.”

Conner’s reaction made Ben wonder if he knew as much as he acted like he knew. “Well… it’s a step in the right direction.”

“It’s a step I won’t be taking. So clear off. My parents are somewhere around here, and if they knew-”

“She wants you to do it.”

Ben slowed. He squinted at Landon’s grinning face. “What do you mean?”

“Just that. She wants you to do it.”

“How do you know?”

“I can tell. She likes you, man.”

“Get stuffed.”

“No, it’s true, she does,” Conner said, backing his friend up. “Have you seen the way she looks at you during church? The way she gazes at you during the reading of the gospel?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Then you need to pull your head out of your butt and take a look around, Kincaid. Valerie Beth McKechnie is a fox. And she wants your body.”

“Even if she liked me, that wouldn’t mean she wanted me to-”

“She does, Ben. She told me she does.”

“She told you? Why would she tell you?”

“We’re friends. Have been since kindergarten. We tell each other everything.”

“You’re full of it.”

“What’s the matter? Are you scared?”

Ben squirmed. “I’m not scared. I’m just not-”

“Then what are you waiting for?” He pushed Ben toward the closed robing room door. “This is your big chance. She’ll probably get so excited she’ll ask to go steady or something.”

Ben steeled himself. “And if I do this, you guys’ll stop hassling me?”

“Absolutely,” they all swore.

“And I’ll be in the club?”

“Forever and ever.”

“Great.” Ben touched the doorknob. Maybe if he just went in quietly and talked to her, she wouldn’t mind that, would she? It’s not like she’s changing her clothes, actually-she’s just derobing. Maybe if he got it over quickly. Who knew-maybe she really did like him. She was gorgeous, with all that long chestnut hair and the cute little nose and dimples and-

“So, go already!” Curran opened the door and Landon shoved Ben through it. And closed the door behind him.

Ben tried the knob, but the boys were holding it shut. Great.

“Ben! What are you doing in here!”

Valerie Beth McKechnie stood before him in all her glory. Long hair, cute nose, exposed midriff, and training bra. Apparently she had removed her blouse when she put on her robe-probably so she wouldn’t look so bulky-and she hadn’t quite gotten it back on yet.

“Ohmigosh.” Ben’s face flushed and suddenly he felt about ten million degrees Fahrenheit. “I’m sorry-I-I-didn’t know you were dressing. I-”

“That’s all right. I don’t mind.” She shrugged, then gave him a wink. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”

Ben felt his mouth go dry. He realized this would be a good time to speak, but somehow, he was utterly unable to make any words come out. He stepped-sort of lurched, really-forward, getting close enough to accomplish his mission without saying anything coherent.

Happily, Valerie Beth filled in the gaps for him. “I think you’re cute, Ben. Really I do. I wish the other boys wouldn’t make fun of you so much. Boys can be so mean sometimes, don’t you think?”

“I-I-I-” That was an improvement over slobbering silence, but still not exactly the suave Cary Grant-like banter he’d been hoping for.

“Why did you come in, Ben? Do you like me? Was there something you wanted?”

Just as Ben thought his knees would buckle, the lights went out. The room was pitch-black.

“Ben Kincaid! Was this your idea?”

Definitely not, but he’d probably never convince her. Curran and Landon at the breaker box, unless he missed his guess. If he was ever going to do this, if he was ever going to be in the club…

“I don’t have much time, Ben. My parents never stay at the after-church coffee long. If there was something you wanted…”

By God, he would never get a better invitation than that. It was dark, they were alone, she had told Curran she wanted him to do it…

He sucked in his gut and lunged.

Valerie Beth McKechnie screamed.

“Ben! Stop that!” She slapped his hands away. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“But you said you wanted-”

“I don’t mind a little kissing. I like kissing. I don’t like being pawed like a dog!”

“But Curran said you wanted-”

“And you listened to him? What kind of moron are you?”

Ben turned and ran. The door was free now; he whipped it open. The light flooded in and, sure enough, there were the Three Stooges huddled outside, pointing and laughing hysterically.

“How’d she like it, lover boy?” Curran asked. He was prostrate with laughter.

“Yeah, Casanova,” Landon said. He wrapped his arms around himself and made kissy noises. “Has she had your baby yet?”

Something must’ve snapped, because not only did Ben come at them, he came at them with enough strength and ferocity to chill them even with three-to-one odds in their favor. The whole group scattered, helter-skelter, with Ben chasing at their collective tails.

After they scattered, Ben had to prioritize. He chose to hunt Curran first-after all, this disgrace was more his fault than anyone’s. He pursued the boy outside the church and around the back end of the church, fists clenched, teeth gritted.

“Come back, you coward!” Ben shouted, but apparently, separated from his friends, Curran felt no need to put on a show of strength. He continued running as hard as he could.

Ben knew Curran lived in the apartments on the west side of the church. In other words, if he got much farther, Ben would never catch him.

“Come and fight, you chicken!” he screamed, but Curran did not stop. He didn’t even slow. In desperation, Ben picked up a rock and hurled it toward Curran with all his might…

Ben didn’t have much of an arm, which was why they always put him in the infield during softball games. But the adrenaline rush must’ve made a profound difference, because when he hurled that rock, it flew forward with the strength and velocity of a major league fastball-

Right into Father Beale’s brand-new stained glass window.

It shattered. Big chunks fell to the ground, making a tremendous clatter. Almost immediately, a cry went up from the parish hall where the adults were having their coffee. Through the outer windows, Ben could see Father Beale emerging from his office, rushing to the scene. And that wasn’t all.

Further back, Ben could see his own father making his way to the scene of the disturbance.

His fists were clenched.

Ben ran to the window, hoping there was something he could do, but he saw in an instant that the beautiful glasswork was destroyed. He had ruined it.

And his father would arrive at any moment.

Chapter 29

The combination of narrow hallways outside the courtroom and the press of journalists forced Canelli to pass near Ben and Christina at the courtroom door.

“Ready to call it quits?” Ben asked him.

Canelli checked to make sure the minicams weren’t on. “Don’t get cocky just because you spun an expert around, Kincaid. This trial has barely started.”

Ben shrugged. “Just trying to spare you further mortification, my friend.”

Canelli moved in closer. “Make no mistake, Kincaid. Your boy’s still going to get the needle for what he did. He’s blowfish.”

Despite Canelli’s bold words, Ben noticed that several announced prosecution “experts” disappeared from the up-next witness list. Thus, they were spared the serology expert, the fiber expert, and the psychiatrist. They would still have to deal with the fingerprint evidence-easily the most damning piece of physical evidence weighing against Father Beale-but Ben couldn’t help but feel his burden had been immeasurably lightened. As he stood in the hallway waiting for the trial to resume, he had to admit that the case was going better than he expected. It was early days, to be sure, but if Canelli kept stumbling and he kept scoring touchdowns, he might even get a directed verdict, thus avoiding the inherent risk and uncertainty of a jury.

“Excuse me, Mr. Kincaid. Could I have your autograph?”

Fortunately for his ego, Ben had identified the giggle even before he turned to see who was addressing him. Judy. With Maura, as always, tucked close behind her.

There was something oddly self-conscious about Judy’s voice, though it took him a moment to figure out what it was. The red light on the minicam from Channel Eight was blinking in their direction, and she knew it. She was playing for the camera.

“I think you’re a fabulous attorney, Mr. Kincaid, the best ever.” She gave him a quick wink. “You’ve been such an inspiration to me. When I grow up, I want to be a brilliant, honest, crusading lawyer just like you.”

“Judy, what are you-?”

“You’re so amazing in the courtroom, Mr. Kincaid. I think you must be the best lawyer in the Southwest. Probably in the United States!”

“Judy…”

“Go along with it,” she said sotto voce. “It’s free publicity.” Then in a louder voice, she added, “I know how busy you are, what with every rich and important person in the country wanting you to be their lawyer, but if you could just take a few moments to sign something for me, it would be the greatest thrill of my life!”

Ben gave her a sharp look. “What is it you want signed, a check?”

“Ben,” she said under her breath, “think marketing. This could translate into big bucks.” And then, in her stage voice, she added, “Since I want to be a lawyer like you, perhaps we could get together sometime and discuss trial strategies and such. Maybe over dinner.”

“Judy, I’m not going on a date with you.”

Maura rolled her eyes. “See, Judy, I told you it wouldn’t work.”

“But I think I would really benefit from your career advice,” Judy continued, as loud as before. “And I know you don’t like to disappoint your fans.”

“Lawyers don’t have fans.” Ben took her by the wrist and led her away from the cameras. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“We’re out for break,” Judy explained. “And we’re getting extra credit for observing this trial.”

“I don’t think this trial is… appropriate for fifteen-year-old ears.”

“Why? Is there going to be sex?” They both giggled.

Ben rolled his eyes. “Let’s hope not. Although that would probably be more fun than the fingerprint expert.”

Sammie Flynn was pretty calm for a young woman sitting in the interrogation room at the Tulsa county jail. She was smoking a cigarette, her fourth in a row. Her auburn hair was slicked back behind her ears. She seemed relaxed and not at all perturbed by the stark environment or the two unfriendly faces on the other side of the table.

But then, she’d been here before.

“We’ve got you dead to rights this time, Sammie,” said Sergeant Lewis, the older of the two cops interrogating her. “You’re going down.”

She took a long drag on her cigarette. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play games, Sammie. You’re dead meat.”

She blew smoke in his face. “Well, I’ve been dead before.”

“Passing bad checks is a felony, Sammie,” said Patrolman Harriman, the younger man at the table. “That’s why I had to pick you up.”

She was wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt, which she pulled over her knees. She sat lotus-style, on her own bare feet, exposing the numerous tattoos on her upper and lower legs. “It’s all a mistake. I thought I had enough money to cover those checks.”

“You were short, Sammie,” Lewis said. “By about twelve thousand dollars.”

She shrugged, a revealing gesture, given that she was wearing no bra and not much of a T-shirt. “I was never good at math.”

“Can you count to twenty?” Lewis shot back. “ ’Cause that’s the minimum you’re looking at, sweetie. Twenty years.”

She lowered her cigarette slowly. “Twenty years? For passing a bad check? No way.”

“Yes way. You’re a three-time offender, baby. Minimum sentencing guidelines. Twenty years.”

Somehow, she managed to retain her cool demeanor. “You’re blowing smoke up my ass.”

“You don’t believe me, Sammie? Ask your lawyer when you see him.”

“I want to see him now. I thought we were having the arraignment or whatever the hell it is.”

“We’re trying. Courtroom’s stuffed to the gills and all cases are backed up. That priest-murder thing is gumming up the works.”

“Priest-murder? What the hell?”

“Don’t you know, Sammie?” Lewis gave his partner a quick but meaningful look. “Hell, you’ve been in a cell next-door to the guy.”

“Yeah, what’s the deal with that? Since when did the jail go coed?”

“It’s only temporary,” Lewis replied. “We’re having… space problems. So what did you think of him?”

“That old gray-headed coot? The one who never talks and prays all the time?”

“That’s the one.”

“He’s a murderer?”

“No doubt about it. I understand the DA is having a little trouble scraping together all the evidence he needs, but he’s guilty, take my word for it.”

Sammie took one last drag from her smoke, then ground it out on the table. “Go figure. Well, once I beat this rap, I’ll never have to see the creep again.”

Both the officers chuckled. “Beat this rap? Sammie, you’re in deep denial. Our case is ironclad. You’re hamburger.”

“I told you, I thought I had the money. My boyfriend must’ve made a withdrawal just before I wrote the check. Besides, I never actually passed the thing. I was just thinking about it.”

Lewis leaned across the table till he was close enough to smell her. “The bank says no one had withdrawal privileges on that account but you. You’ve never had a thousand dollars in the bank, much less twelve thousand. And we’ve got footage from the bank video camera that shows you passing the check.” He smiled broadly. “Your ass is grass, Sammie. You’re going down.”

Sammie left the interrogation room with an astounding degree of calm and reserve. But she was an experienced girl; she didn’t panic. Easily. And she had a battle plan that had served her well in the past and would no doubt do so again.

Since the arraignment had to be postponed to the next day, Sammie was given access to a phone to make whatever arrangements necessary. She made four phone calls, then asked for the week’s old newspapers, displaying a heretofore unrevealed intellectual curiosity. And then she called her attorney.

“Donald? Yeah, it’s Sammie. Yeah, I know. Hey, you gotta get me outta here. I can’t do no twenty years.”

She paused, twirling the phone cord around her finger. “I don’t care what the law says. There’s gotta be a way.”

She listened intently. Her disposition did not improve. “Well, you’re pretty goddamn useless, aren’t you? Public defender. More like public menace.” She ignored the eruption on the other end of the line. “Yeah, well, I know how you wanna be paid. And it ain’t gonna happen again, not unless you find some way to get me outta here.”

She listened patiently to another three minutes of insults and excuses. “You really are useless, aren’t you, Donald? Well, listen, you big jerk. I’ve got a way, even if you don’t. I’ve got it all figured out.”

At the end of the day, Harriman reported back to Lewis. “I had them give her the newspapers, just like you said. And we let her make as many phone calls as she wanted. What’s she doing, anyway?”

Sergeant Lewis grinned, then spread his hands. “How should I know? We’re not allowed to listen in, you know. Unconstitutional.”

“She was actually reading those newspapers. I was surprised. Of course, I was surprised she could read.”

“Sammie’s a girl of many talents. And amazing resourcefulness.”

“You think she’s up to something?”

“Couldn’t say. How could I know? I’m not her confidant.”

“Still… I thought maybe you had some idea.”

“Far be it for me to try to understand the criminal mind.” Lewis’s smile broadened. He leaned back in his chair, placing his hands behind his neck. “But I think maybe you’ve just made a friend of mine in the district attorney’s office very happy.”

Chapter 30

“This is trial by ambush, your honor!” Ben argued vehemently. “Prosecutorial tactics at their sleaziest!”

“I apologize for the last-minute notice,” Canelli said. He was doing a better job than Ben of staying calm-and with good reason. “The woman just contacted us last night. What could I do?”

Ben had an answer. “You could tell her to go away and keep her lies to herself.”

“Ignore an eyewitness to a confession? I’d lose my job.”

“Better you lose your job than Father Beale loses his life!”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, stop!” Judge Pitcock tried to retake control of the heated discussion taking place in his own chambers. Somehow, being separated from the jury seemed to have given the lawyers leave to turn the volume up about three thousand decibels. “This isn’t helping anything.”

Ben continued pressing. “This is grossly improper, your honor. Tell me you’re not going to allow this woman to testify.”

“I don’t think I can do that, counsel.”

“Your honor, this is a repulsive assault on everything this court is supposed to represent-fairness, ethics-”

“He’s wrong,” Canelli countered. “His client is the repulsive assault. On human life, religion, safety. Even the sanctity of the family-”

The judge turned his eyes skyward. “Please, Mr. Canelli. I’m a Mormon, not a moron.”

“But your honor-”

“Listen up, both of you. This is how it’s going to be. I don’t like last-minute witnesses, but I’ve got an affidavit here saying the woman just came forward last night. It’s uncontested, so I have to assume its truthfulness. I can’t prevent a keenly relevant witness from testifying where there has been no fault on the part of the prosecution.”

“But your honor-”

“Mr. Kincaid, this is my turn to talk, not yours. If the defense needs additional time to prepare for cross-examination, I will grant it. But she will be heard.”

“But she’s a snitch!”

Judge Pitcock looked at him wearily. “Mr. Kincaid, if the prosecution were only permitted to put nice people on the stand, they’d never be able to convict anyone, would they?”

Canelli had the sense to admit up front that Sammie Flynn had a rap sheet as long as the Isthmus of Panama. He even acknowledged that the prosecution had given her a break in exchange for her testimony. Which was too bad. As Ben knew, if he’d brought those details out on cross, they’d be damaging. By bringing them out himself, Canelli effectively defused the time bombs.

“When did you first meet Daniel Beale?” Canelli asked her.

Sammie had gotten scrubbed and fitted with a pleasant pantsuit that covered most of her tattoos. In the witness box, she looked relatively presentable. “In jail, when I first got brought in on the bad check charge. He was in the next cell over.”

“Did he ever speak to you?”

“No. I tried to talk to him a coupla times, but he never said nothing. Well, not to me.”

“Did he speak to anyone else?”

“Yeah. God.”

“He spoke to God?”

“Yeah. He prayed. Out loud. Down on his knees, like a schoolkid.”

“And did you overhear what he said?”

“Objection,” Ben said, rising. He was liking this testimony less and less, the more of it he heard. “Hearsay.”

“It’s an admission against interest,” Canelli argued, “as will soon be apparent. Plus, it qualifies as being given under circumstances that suggest truthfulness.” He paused, giving Ben a wry expression. “People don’t normally lie to God.”

“No, they don’t,” Judge Pitcock said. “I’ll allow it.”

“What did he say in his prayer?” Canelli reasked.

“He asked for forgiveness.”

There was an audible stir in the jury box-and for that matter, throughout the courtroom.

“Forgiveness-for what?”

She drew in her breath, then let it rip. “For killing that woman. Kate McGuire.”

The commotion in the courtroom at this point was loud enough to merit a stern warning and a few raps of the gavel from Judge Pitcock.

At counsel table, Father Beale leaned toward Ben and whispered. “This is absolutely false.”

“I know.”

“I don’t pray aloud when I’m alone. And I wouldn’t pray for forgiveness for something I didn’t do.”

“I know.”

“Why would she say these horrible things?”

Ben’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the witness box. “You’re her get-out-of-jail-free card.”

Canelli continued the direct examination. “Did he say how he’d done it?”

Sammie nodded. “He said he clubbed her over the head with a paperweight, then strangled her.”

“And did he say why?”

“He said he became angry. He was tired of the… intense dissension… in the church.”

At counsel table, Ben hastily scribbled a note and passed it to Christina. She read it and then, a moment later, left the courtroom.

“But why kill Kate McGuire?”

“Because she was the main troublemaker. She was the ringleader for all the… the… what did he say? The theological malcontents.”

“I see,” Canelli said gravely. “So he killed her.”

“I don’t think he planned it exactly. He was asking God for forgiveness for his temper. I think he got mad and just went crazy.”

How kind, Ben thought. She was sending Father Beale up the river, but she was at least giving him an opening to plead insanity. A generous girl.

“Are you sure you heard this? You didn’t misunderstand him?”

“I couldn’t misunderstand what he was saying. Our cells were right next to one another.”

“Thank you, Sammie. Your witness, Mr. Kincaid.”

For once, Ben did not have to feign his anger on cross examination. “You really don’t care what happens to anyone other than yourself, do you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean you’re condemning an innocent man to death just to save your miserable butt, and that’s about as low as it’s possible to get.”

“Your honor,” Canelli barked. “This is outrageous.”

“I’ll tell you what’s outrageous,” Ben snapped back before the judge could speak. “Allowing this kind of testimony in a trial for murder. First we had junk science; now we get junk eyewitnesses. What’s next? Testimony from the psychic hotline?”

“Your honor!” Canelli protested.

Judge Pitcock looked at Ben levelly. “Mr. Kincaid, I will not permit this kind of tirade in my courtroom. You will either ask proper cross-ex questions, or you will sit down.”

“Very well, your honor.” Ben had let the jury know what he thought of the witness; that was the foundation. Now he had to take her apart limb by limb.

Out the corner of his eye, Ben saw Christina returning to the courtroom with a big bundle of newsprint. Excellent.

“Ms. Flynn, how many times have you been arrested?”

She looked bored. “Haven’t we been over this already? I’ve been in jail twice.”

“That isn’t what I asked. How many arrests?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. Five or six.”

Ben pulled the rap sheet out of the folder Loving had brought him as soon as he got the new witness’s name. “Actually, it’s fourteen. For a variety of low-level felonies. But you’ve only been incarcerated twice.”

“Guess I’ve been lucky.”

“No, you’ve been busy. How many times have you testified in court, Ms. Flynn?”

“Objection,” Canelli said. “Relevance.”

“Overruled.” Judge Pitcock needed no urging; he knew where Ben was going. “Answer the question.”

“I ain’t sure,” Sammie replied. “A few.”

“Five isn’t a few, Ms. Flynn.” He withdrew another long piece of paper from his folder. “Five is a lot.”

“Well, whatever.”

“Is it true you’re known in the law enforcement community as the 1-800-CONFESS Girl?”

“How would I know what the cops say about me?”

“Your honor,” Canelli said, “this is offensive and-”

“Overruled. You may continue, Mr. Kincaid.”

“You’ve testified against five different inmates-three for murder, one for robbery, and one for grand larceny. Correct?”

Sammie frowned. “I’m not good with that legal talk.”

“When you got arrested yet again a few days ago and were looking at the hard side of a mandatory twenty years, you needed to make a deal in a hurry, right? And with those pesky mandatory sentencing guidelines in place, the only way you could get your sentence reduced or eliminated was in exchange for ‘cooperation,’ right?”

“I already said we made a deal.”

“Yes, but what you didn’t say is that you concocted the whole story so you could make a deal!”

“That’s not true,” Sammie said angrily. “It isn’t-”

“I think you’re an expert in this field, Ms. Flynn. I think once you knew you were in trouble, you walked into the county jail like a shopper in a grocery store. You sized up all the tomatoes, then squeezed them a little to see what you could get out of them. You probably heard the DA’s case against my client was hurting, so you called some friends and read some newspapers and got enough information to offer the authorities a convincing lie. A lie that would condemn my client.”

“I heard what I heard.”

“And it’s just a coincidence that the district attorney wanted it so bad he offered you complete immunity, right? What a break for you when Father Beale started praying out loud.”

“Hey, I didn’t make the old man talk.”

“I wonder. I think you made up the whole story.”

Sammie didn’t blink. “You’re just saying that because your guy is a murderer and you want to get him off.”

“I think you took what little you know about the murder out of the newspaper.”

“That’s not true!”

“So you’re denying it?”

“Yes! I told you what I heard. From that man’s own lips.”

“Really. Because some of your testimony seemed a little unusual. Like when you talked about”-Ben glanced at his notes-“the ‘intense dissension.’ Big words for a down-to-earth girl like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that you didn’t strike me as sesquipedalian.”

“Huh?”

Ben smiled. “Were those your words, Ms. Flynn?”

“No, they were his words. Beale’s.”

“Then I guess it’s just a coincidence”-Ben picked up the top newspaper Christina had brought him and flipped to the front page-“that the Tulsa World used the exact same phrase yesterday in its coverage of this case.”

She shrugged. “Huh. Maybe they’ve got a spy in the jailhouse.”

“And look,” Ben continued, “here’s another one of your key phrases. ‘Ringleader of a group of theological malcontents.’ ” He held the paper up so the jury could see. “And they weren’t quoting anyone; they were just being prosy. Another coincidence, Ms. Flynn?”

She was beginning to lose some of her sangfroid. “Must be.”

“The truth is, you didn’t hear Father Beale say a thing, did you? You just read about it in the paper.”

“That’s bull. You can’t prove that.”

“Can’t I?” Ben laid down the newspaper. “I noticed you described the murder weapon as a paperweight. I’m sure the jury noticed that, too. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So-it wasn’t. It wasn’t the murder weapon-because the victim died from strangulation-and it wasn’t a paperweight. It was an award. Father Beale’s St. Crispin’s Award.”

Sammie was beginning to look as if she could really use a smoke. “Well, whatever. I guess he made a mistake.”

“About his own award? I don’t think so. But the newspaper did. Right here.” He took another paper from the stack and pointed out the offending passage. “That’s where you got the mistake. Not from Father Beale. From the morning newspaper. Your so-called confession is nothing but a tissue of lies.”

Sammie’s face puffed up. “All I did was repeat what he said. I mean, maybe I didn’t get the exact words right. But what I said was what he told me.”

“I thought you said he was talking to God.”

“No, he-I mean, he was, but-” She was starting to lose it, which of course was exactly what Ben wanted. “You’re trying to confuse me!”

“And you’re trying to convict an innocent man to save your sorry little butt. The worst of it is-since you’ve already made your deal, you’ll still get off scot-free, even though your testimony was worthless.” He turned to face the prosecution table. “I don’t think you were put in that cell next to Father Beale by accident. I think the cops knew you were a career snitch, and that’s why they put you there and gave you access to the phone and newspapers and let you educate yourself. So you would be tempted to fabricate false testimony to shore up their failing case. Which, like the pathetic loser you are, you did.”

Sammie leaned forward, screaming. “Don’t let him tell these lies about me!”

Canelli hit the floor running. “Your honor, these accusations are unconscionable!”

Pitcock appeared unimpressed. “Are they, counsel?”

“Your honor, I can assure the court that we would never do anything improper or-”

Judge Pitcock waved him to silence. “Don’t waste your energy, sir. You called this witness to the stand knowing full well what she was and what she was going to do. I’ve watched these past years as the use of dubious snitch testimony has become increasingly common-even though it’s inherently unreliable.”

“Your honor,” Ben said, “I move that this woman’s entire testimony be stricken from the record and that the jury be instructed to disregard every word of it.”

Canelli was outraged. “The prosecution opposes this motion in the strongest possible terms.”

Judge Pitcock drew in his breath. “I suppose there are some instances in which informer testimony could be reliably presented. Where the witness has no prior history of snitching. Where the witness is not a recidivist. Where the testimony can be corroborated. Where the circumstances suggest reliability. Where the deals made with the prosecutor are written and all conversations pertaining thereto have been recorded. Where the scenario does not appear to have been engineered by the law enforcement officers involved.” He peered down harshly at Canelli. “But none of those circumstances are present here, are they?”

For once, Canelli was speechless.

Pitcock addressed the courtroom. “The defense motion is granted. This witness’s testimony will be stricken from the record. The jury is instructed-in fact, the jury is ordered-to disregard every word she has said.” He lowered his eyes to the man standing just before him. “And Mr. Canelli, if you ever bring another witness like this into my court, I will have your license.”

He banged his gavel with uncommon gravity. “We’re in recess. I’m going to lunch.”

Chapter 31

“Champagne is on its way!” Christina announced as she bounced into the conference room. “Three cheers for Ben the Magnificent!”

Loving followed her lead. “High fives for the master!” he bellowed.

Ben slapped him back, but there was a scowl on his face. “This is way premature, guys.”

“Au contraire,” Christina countered. “You were brilliant in there today. Brilliant!”

Loving agreed. “You tore that snitch to shreds, Skipper. I almost felt sorry for her.”

“Is that why you asked for her phone number?” Christina inquired.

Loving’s face flushed. “Wuh… yeah… I mean… I wanted to ’spress my condolences.”

Christina hugged his shoulder. “You don’t have to pretend for me, Loving. I know you’re a crazy man for tattoos.”

Jones entered carrying an ice bucket and bottle. “Is this where the celebration is taking place?”

Ben held up his hands. “Just in case you didn’t hear me the first time, it’s too soon to be celebrating. Canelli still has at least a day’s worth of witnesses. Anything could happen.”

“We’re not celebrating winning the trial,” Christina informed him. “We’re celebrating the sheer joy of watching you dismember that witness. I mean, you’ve been on a roll this whole trial. But what you did to that snitch! That was like-unprecedented in the annals of legal history.”

“She was just a stupid desperate woman telling a big lie to salvage herself. Hardly like matching wits with a chess grand master.”

“And then,” Christina continued, “just to make it better, you got her entire worthless testimony struck from the record. I’ve never seen that in all the years I’ve been in the courtroom.”

Ben shrugged. “It’s Canelli’s fault. He should never have called that woman to the stand. He’s normally too smart to make such stupid mistakes. My guess is his boss forced this prosecution after the second murder got so much publicity, even though the proof really wasn’t there. His case wasn’t good to begin with, and he’s been hurting ever since.”

“Yeah. And today his case exploded in his face,” Loving said. “Three cheers for Kincaid, King of the Courtroom!”

All three staff members lifted their glasses and hooted and hollered.

“Will you people stop?” Ben said. “I’m just glad Father Beale isn’t here. He might think this means he’s home free. And he isn’t. Not by a long shot.”

“What a party pooper,” Christina said. “Look, Ben, I don’t know if this case is in the bag or not, but I know this. You’ve come a long way since the days when you couldn’t open your briefcase without doing something silly.”

There was a knock on the door, and a well-pierced face poked through the opening. “Excuse me. Mr. Kincaid?”

Ben was pleased to see Marco Ellison, his new star defense witness. He had managed to get the kid’s name added to the witness list (Canelli could hardly object after naming his own last-minute witness). He’d asked the kid to stop by the office tonight to prepare.

“Thanks for coming, Marco.” Ben excused himself from the conference room, then led Marco into his private office.

“Hey, nice place,” Marco said. “You do all the decorating yourself?”

This was sarcasm, of course, because excepting his framed diploma and a potted plant Christina had given him for Christmas, there was no decoration at all.

“I really appreciate your coming forward,” Ben said. “Your testimony could save an innocent man’s life.”

“Hey, I’m looking forward to it.” Marco grinned, revealing the metallic stud piercing his tongue. “My friends still can’t believe I was in a church where some chick got wiped. I’ve been beer guzzling on that story for weeks.”

Ben couldn’t believe this guy could be in the church without overshadowing the bride, but that was neither here nor there. “Your testimony is critical, Marco, because you establish that Father Beale was not in his office at the time of the murder. If you saw him for a good five minutes after the wedding, he can’t be the killer.”

“Hey, I’m happy to help out.” He grinned, jabbed Ben in the ribs. “Want me to make it ten?”

“I’m-sorry?”

“Well, I’m just thinking, if five minutes is good, ten would be better, right?”

Ben’s smile faded. “Well, no, actually it wouldn’t, because ten minutes after the wedding, dozens of people saw him leaving the crime scene. If you make it ten minutes, you’ll get destroyed on cross.”

“Aw well. Just trying to help. Maybe I could say I asked him a question at the reception and we went out to the garden to talk and he was never out of my sight.”

Ben felt as if the tiny candle burning in his heart since this kid turned up had been snuffed out by a tornado. “Marco… your job here is not to make up the best story. Your job is to tell the jury what you saw and heard.”

“Oh, right, right. I getcha.” Marco winked. “I’ll just tell them what I saw and heard.”

“I’m serious, Marco. I can’t-” Ben choked. Just thinking about it was painful. “I can’t put you on the stand if I know you’re going to lie. It’s unethical.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you down. I’m a drama major-did I tell you that?”

“I’m serious, Marco.”

“Hey, I’m hip. I watch Court TV. I know it’s all just a game you lawyers play. They get a witness, you get a witness. I can really help you out here.”

“I have to know the truth, Marco. Tell me what you really saw.”

“I’m thinking I could get some really good coverage out of this trial. You know, the press has been swarming all over that courtroom.”

Ben felt his teeth clenching. “Marco, were you even there? Were you at the church at all?”

Again he gave Ben his broad charismatic grim. “Who’s to say I wasn’t? I mean, was someone taking roll?”

Ben crossed the room and opened the door. “Get out of here, Marco.”

“Hey, chill, man. We can still work something out.”

“No, we can’t. Go.”

“I can help your guy-”

“Maybe. If you don’t get caught lying. On the other hand, if you do, Father Beale will go down in flames. At any rate, I’m not putting you on. If I did, I’d be no better than any other lawyer who puts liars in the witness box.”

“Hey, that’s harsh. Don’t treat me like this.”

“Go.”

“You’ll be sorry, man.”

“Go.”

Marco gave a lopsided shrug, then ambled out of the office.

Ben slumped into his chair. Damn this job anyway. Trial practice was making him manic-depressive. Just a few minutes ago, he was actually staring to feel good about the way the trial was going. And now…

He’d been counting on that kid to keep Father Beale off the stand. True, Canelli was fumbling and Ben had done some real damage to his witnesses. But he also knew the worst was yet to come, and they would have to put on some kind of case if they expected to persuade the jury.

Christina poked her head through the door. “I saw your star witness leave. Everything okay?”

“Definitely not,” Ben grumbled. “Strike his name from the list. With indelible ink.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

She walked behind him and began massaging his shoulders. “Don’t worry. You’ll think of something.”

Ben wished he shared her confidence, but he didn’t. But he hoped she was right. Because if she wasn’t, Father Beale would have to go forth and testify, a Christian soldier marching as to war. And Canelli would tear him apart.

Manly Trussell returned to his apartment, his fists covered with blood.

His friend was waiting for him. “Have a good time?”

Manly glanced at his hands, then walked to the sink. “You could say that.”

“I do admire a man who loves his work. Success?”

Manly let the water stream over his hands, watching the thin red streaks swirl around the basin. “I think it’s fair to say there’s one more babykiller who won’t be gabbing much in the near future. Not till his jaw reattaches, anyway.”

“And he didn’t identify you?”

“Nope. Learned my lesson last time. I wore the mask.”

“Good. Very good.” The slowed articulation and slight pursing of the lips suggested what the speaker didn’t wish to say. “So… you just hurt him?”

“Yeah, I hurt him. Bad. Whaddaya mean, just?”

“I wonder if maybe it’s time to… elevate the initiative. Take it to the next level.”

Manly shut off the water and grabbed a towel. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“I think you know.”

“No, I don’t. What?”

“Well… they’re never really going to take you seriously. Not while you’re just wounding them.”

“I think that creep tonight is going to take his wounding very seriously.” Manly slung his towel back against the rack. “Are you saying you want me to kill these people?”

“Death does have a way of driving a point home. As you well know.”

“Yeah, but I-”

“I don’t want to pressure you, Manly. You do what you think is right. Not everyone has the courage to… go the distance.”

“Now, wait just a goddamn minute. I got plenty of courage. But you’re talking about murder.”

“Four thousand aborted babies are murdered in this country every year, Manly. Is that right?”

“That’s different.”

“It isn’t different. It’s the whole point. More murders happen every day. The question is what you’re going to do about it.”

Manly ran his fingers through his sandy hair. “I guess. But still…” He exhaled slowly. “Jesus. I don’t know what to think.”

“Then don’t, Manly.” His friend laid a hand on Manly’s shoulder. “It isn’t exactly your strong suit. Just leave the thinking to me. I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of everything.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. Cross my heart. In fact… I already have a good idea what we should do next. Something so… impressive, they’ll have to listen to you. Something this town will never forget.”

Chapter 32

Ben knew it had to happen-eventually Canelli was bound to put on a good witness. And he knew that the evidence was compelling and that fingerprints, alas, could not be dismissed as junk science. Thus, it stood to reason that the fingerprint expert would be the low part of the trial-or one of them, at any rate. As a result, Ben prepared for it, prepared Father Beale for it, worried about it, anticipated it.

But somehow, the anticipation is never as bad as the real thing.

Ben listened as Canelli led Dr. Emilio Fisher through his description of the painstaking methodology he had followed during his examination. They were treated to a detailed discourse on the thirty-seven primary characteristics of fingerprints, the difference between dusting powders, how fingerprints were lifted, how they were preserved, and how points of similarity are used to match prints. Canelli took him step-by-step through the chain of custody followed to preserve and protect the evidence, leaving absolutely no opportunity for tampering.

“There are three basic types of fingerprints,” Fisher explained. “Visible, plastic, and latent. Visible prints are left when the fingers, palms, or feet of the suspect come into contact with any clean, smooth surface. Some type of substrate is required to capture the friction ridge detail. Dust is the most common, but we’ve also successfully taken prints from blood, ink, grease, paint and other similar substances.”

“What about plastic prints?”

“Those occur when contact is made with a pliable surface or substance-wax, putty, gum, that sort of thing. You get a negative impression of the print, since the ridges of the skin are reproduced as indentations in the capturing substance.”

“And latent prints?”

“Those occur when natural skin secretions-perspiration and body oil, principally-are mixed with dust or dirt and left on a surface suitable for recovery of the print, paper, glass or, as in this case, a smooth polished acrylic. Many forms of development are possible-light sources, sprays, chemicals-but here we used a simple dusting powder to create a color contrast between the print and its background. Once the print is found, photography and mechanical lifting methods are employed to record the image and preserve it for future analysis.”

“What, if anything, did you find at the scene of the crime?” Canelli asked.

“Latents. On the smooth acrylic desk object-the St. Crispin’s Award. The prints were clear and unmistakable. Of all the different types of prints, latents are the most hardy. They can last for years.”

“Is there any way to date a print?”

“Not reliably. There are some who claim to have discovered techniques for judging the age of a fingerprint, but in my professional opinion, they are not reliable.”

What? Ben wondered. Some junk science to which the jury will not be subjected? Wonders never cease.

“Were you able to lift the prints found on the award?”

“Yes. Very reliably. And we matched them against the fingerprint exemplar taken from the defendant upon his arrest.”

“And your conclusion, if any?”

“They matched. The prints were left by Daniel Beale.”

“You’re certain about this?”

“I’m certain. Everyone who has ever seen the prints is certain. Even an amateur viewing the prints would realize that they match. The points of similarity are overwhelming. There is simply no question about it. Those prints were made by the defendant. And no one else.”

When it was Ben’s turn to cross, he felt like Don Quixote riding in to tilt at the windmills. This was a mission impossible and then some. The science of fingerprints was beyond reproach; worse, it was, unlike DNA, a matter of common knowledge to all, easily understood even by the densest of jurors.

Moreover, Dr. Fisher was a good witness. He had looked rather ordinary, in his cotton J.C. Penney’s jacket and polyester slacks, but he sounded convincing on the stand, knowledgeable and confident, without seeming like a prosecution pawn willing to take any position or ram anything down the jurors’ collective throats.

Ben wondered about the attire, though; it was almost as if all police experts took their outfits from the same very bad costume closet. Was it symptomatic of the fact that police salaries were so poor, or was it a matter of taste (also poor)? Or could it be the prosecutors thought if a police witness looked too good he might lose credibility? It was an imponderable Ben promised to give some serious thought. Another time.

“Now, Doctor,” Ben said evenly, “when you say there were no fingerprints on the weapon other than Father Beale’s, what you’re actually saying is that you didn’t find any fingerprints other than Father Beale’s, right?”

“In part.” Fisher was taking the cross in stride, neither disturbed nor obnoxiously unruffled. “But the reason I didn’t find any others is because they weren’t there.”

“As far as you could detect.”

“And if they had been there, I would have detected them.”

Ben rubbed his forehead. This was going to be a tough nut. “Now Doctor, be honest with the jury. Is it possible to touch an object without leaving a fingerprint?”

“It’s possible to brush your finger against an object and not leave a print. Possibly to sustain a more prolonged touching on a surface that is not particularly conducive to prints. But in this case, we’re dealing with a clear acrylic-a substance highly conducive to leaving prints. And we know the killer didn’t just lightly touch the object, either. In order to muster the force necessary to deliver the blow, he or she would’ve had to grip the award firmly, for an extended period of time. Given those parameters, it is in my opinion absolutely impossible that the assailant would not leave a print behind.”

“Maybe the print was smeared by the force or impact.”

“In which case I would’ve detected the smear. But I didn’t. Some of Father Beale’s prints were smeared, but there was nothing that could be attributed to a third party.”

“What about unresolved latents?”

“There weren’t any.”

“Maybe the killer wiped it clean after the murder.”

“He would’ve eliminated Beale’s prints, as well as his own. Unless Daniel Beale picked it up afterward. And didn’t mention it to the police. That doesn’t seem likely to me.”

Ben tried a new approach. “Isn’t it true that some people leave prints more easily than others?”

“Yes.” Fisher fingered his glasses absently. “Print residues do vary, depending principally upon the oiliness of the skin. But everyone on earth has ridges on their fingertips. And there is no way anyone could’ve held that award with the strength necessary to deliver that blow to the victim’s head without leaving a print. It is simply impossible.”

Ben glanced back at Christina. A quick look from her was all he needed to tell him he was doing just as badly as he thought he was doing. If this didn’t improve quickly, the trial was going to take a major turnaround. For the worse.

“Perhaps the assailant was wearing gloves,” Ben suggested.

“Admittedly, that would’ve explained the absence of fingerprints.”

Ben smiled, glad to see the doctor was a reasonable man.

“But the police searched the church and the people present for hours and hours, literally leaving no stone or pocket unturned. They found no gloves, much less gloves splattered with blood.”

“There must be other ways the killer could hold that award without leaving a print. Perhaps the killer wrapped a towel or cloth around his hand. Maybe a handkerchief.”

“But if so, where is it? Again, the police searched the premises and all possible suspects with uncommon thoroughness almost immediately after the body was discovered. Any such cloth or towel would be covered with blood. It should’ve been easy to find, therefore-after all, there was no time to run down to the local dry cleaners. If your hypothesis were true, the implement would’ve been discovered-quickly and easily. But it wasn’t.” He turned toward the jury. “And from that, as a man of science, I can make only one logical inference. That it wasn’t found because it didn’t exist.”

Ben knew he was getting nowhere; worse, by rehashing the evidence and giving Fisher countless opportunities to restate his conclusions, he was drilling it ever more firmly into the jurors’ consciousnesses.

He glanced back at counsel table. Father Beale was losing the poker face they had crafted during all those pretrial prep sessions. The impact of this evidence was hitting him hard.

Well, better to make some point, however unhelpful, than to make no point at all, he supposed. “Granted, we don’t know all the ins and outs of how it was done in this case. Nonetheless, it is possible to hold an object without leaving a print, right?”

Dr. Fisher wasn’t having any. “In general, or in this case?”

“In general.”

“In general, yes. But in this-”

“And if it can be done, then it is possible that it was done here, and we just haven’t figured out how, right?”

“Objection,” Canelli said. “Your honor, it’s not relevant what’s possible-only what happened.”

“I’m allowed to explore alternative theories,” Ben rejoined.

“But this is not a serious theory. This is pure speculation!”

Judge Pitcock pondered a moment. “I’ll allow you to go a bit further, Mr. Kincaid, but I’m more interested in facts than guesswork, and I think the jury will be, too.”

Ben continued. “Dr. Fisher, isn’t it true that it is possible that the assailant held that award without leaving a print and we just haven’t figured out how?”

“No, I’m sorry, but I can’t agree with that. If that were done, I would’ve figured out how. You would probably be spouting a dozen different ways it could’ve been done-if you could think of any. But you can’t. No one can. And as a man of science, I must conclude that if there are no viable explanations of how another person could’ve held that weapon-then there was no other person.”

“But even if you can’t explain it, it’s possible-”

“If you want to take that position, Mr. Kincaid, I suppose it’s possible that a ghost floated into the church and clubbed the poor victim on the head, and that’s why there were no prints. But I don’t believe in ghosts. Do you?”

Ben didn’t answer. What was there to say?

“And I don’t believe football-size awards hurl themselves into people’s heads. And I don’t believe that blow could’ve been caused by anyone on earth-except Daniel Beale.”

As Ben sat down, he tried not to let his feelings show. It was important that it seem to the jury-and to his client-as if nothing major had happened. But he knew better. He knew he had just come up against the first witness he couldn’t crack, not in the least, on cross. The first witness to really make the jury suspect Father Beale might be guilty.

Juries were unpredictable, but before, Ben sensed that they were winning, at least a little bit. That the trial was, for the most part, going their way. But he didn’t have that sense any longer. Now he knew better.

What he didn’t know was that it was only going to get worse.

Chapter 33

During the break, Christina flipped her trial notebook to the witness list and showed Ben the score.

“By my count, we’ve run through all the prosecution’s technical or expert types, all the cop witnesses, and all the actual eyewitnesses. All that’s left are a few St. Benedict’s members. So the worst should be over.”

Ben shook his head. “It doesn’t figure. Canelli’s a savvy prosecutor, and he has a great flair for the dramatic. He’ll want to go out with a bang. He must be saving something.”

“But what? More disgruntled vestry members? Who cares? We’ve heard that tune to death.”

“Which is what worries me.” Ben drummed a finger against his lips. “Could it be one of them is singing a song we haven’t heard yet?”

“How could there be anything we haven’t heard?”

“I’d put my money on Ernestine Rupert,” Father Beale said, joining the discussion. “I don’t think she’ll be able to resist the opportunity to trash me in public.”

“Let her do her worst,” Ben murmured. “She’ll go down in flames as soon as I reveal she’s been blackmailing half the church.”

“Maybe it’s this other St. Benedict’s member, Carol Mason,” Christina suggested. “The Sunday school teacher. Maybe she has a complaint we didn’t hear about in our pretrial interview.”

The discussion continued for a good ten minutes, until Judge Pitcock returned and the trial resumed. But despite all the analysis and contemplation, none of them were prepared for what happened next.

“The State calls Marco Ellison to the stand,” Canelli announced.

Ben rose out of his chair, gaping as if he’d witnessed a train wreck. What the-?

“Bench conference,” Ben said, but by that time, he was already halfway there. Canelli fell into place behind him.

“Your honor,” Ben began, “this witness is not on the prosecution’s list.”

“He’s on their list,” Canelli rejoined. “He’s the one they went to all the trouble to add a few days ago, remember? Then they tried to have him yanked. They know all about him. They can hardly claim unfair surprise.”

“It is unfair surprise, your honor. We had no idea the prosecution intended to call him. What’s more, the man is a terminal liar.”

“Which I suppose explains what he was doing on your list in the first place,” Canelli replied.

“No,” Ben said, “it explains why we decided we couldn’t call him. He offered me testimony that would help my client, but I turned it down because I knew it wasn’t true.”

“That’s funny. I don’t think his testimony is going to help you at all.”

“Because he’s changed it! When I wouldn’t put him on the stand, he must’ve changed his story around so that you would!” Ben appealed to the judge. “Your honor, this witness didn’t see anything. He just wants a piece of the action. He wants to be on television. I think he has some crazy idea that being in this highly publicized trial will jump-start his acting career.”

Canelli turned to the judge. “Obviously, your honor, in the course of preparing the witness they realized he had information that would damage their client’s case, so they decided not to put him on the stand. But because Mr. Ellison is a civic-minded gentleman who only wants to see justice done, he came to the prosecution with his information.”

“Civic-minded gentleman? We’re talking about a punk with a pierced tongue!”

“Gentlemen, please!” Judge Pitcock looked at them sternly, his left hand covering the microphone. “I appreciate your concerns, Mr. Kincaid, but what do you want me to do? Given the circumstances, you can’t claim unfair surprise, and I can’t preclude the prosecution from calling a witness who could have relevant information.”

“But he doesn’t, sir. He’s a liar. He’s making it up as he goes along. He told me one story one day, then wanted to change it all around the next.”

“You’ll have an opportunity to demonstrate that on cross.”

“How? There were no witnesses to our conversations other than myself.”

Pitcock shook his head. “I can’t tell you how to try your case, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Fine. Then I’ll testify.”

“The defense attorney testifying on behalf of his client? You know perfectly well I can’t permit that.”

“Then I’ll step down from the case. Ms. McCall can handle the remainder.”

The judge’s head was still shaking. “Same firm, same lawyer.”

“Then we’ll both resign. I’ll find a replacement to defend Father Beale.”

“Change lawyers in the middle of a murder trial? You can’t be serious.”

Ben was about ready to tear out his hair. Or Judge Pitcock’s. “Your honor-this witness is a liar!”

“Then you may cross-examine him and attempt to prove that. If you need more time to prepare, I’ll give it to you. But that’s the best I can do. I’ve bent over backwards to give your client a fair shake, Mr. Kincaid. But I can’t exclude pertinent witnesses just because you don’t like what they’re going to say.” He turned his head. “Mr. Canelli, call your witness.”

Ben returned to counsel table and watched as Marco Ellison took the stand. Canelli had outfitted him in a dress shirt and pants, which was a definite improvement, although the Sunday school outfit was a bizarre contrast to the punk haircut and piercings.

Canelli quickly established that Marco had been at the wedding, had left early, had wandered out into the prayer garden, and had seen Father Beale after he left the sanctuary.

“How long did he remain in the prayer garden?” Canelli asked.

“Not long at all. Barely fifteen seconds. He checked his watch, as if he had an appointment or something, then headed to the rear doors of the church.”

“The ones closest to the offices.”

“That’s right. He would’ve gotten there… at most maybe a minute after the wedding concluded.”

“Which means he was there at the time the murder occurred,” Canelli summed up. “Thank you for your testimony. I pass the witness.”

Ben didn’t waste a beat before launching his attack. “Mr. Ellison, isn’t it true you approached me not five days ago and told me you had testimony to offer the defense?”

Marco seemed undisturbed. “That’s true.”

“And isn’t it true you told me you had information that could help Father Beale?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And isn’t it also true that on the next day you offered to ‘improve’ your story? Which is why I took you off my witness list.”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘improve.’ ”

“Then let me put it bluntly. You offered to lie to make your story better. So I’d put you on the stand.”

“Now wait a minute. That isn’t so.”

“Didn’t you say, ‘Hey, I know it’s all a game’?”

Marco edged forward. “Are you kidding? You were the one who said that.”

“Me?” Ben’s eyes widened. “Why would I-?”

“You told me trials were just a game and everyone knew it and tried to get me to change my testimony to help your client.”

Ben felt his pulse racing. There were few things more frustrating than hearing someone sit in that chair and say things you knew were lies-especially when you had no means of proving it.

Marco continued. “You told me something I didn’t really understand about the time of death-you wanted me to say the priest had been in the prayer garden longer than he really had. But I wouldn’t do it. So you told me you wouldn’t use me at trial.”

Ben tried to control himself. “Mr. Ellison, I’ve been practicing law for many years now. I have never encouraged a witness to say something that wasn’t true, and I’m not likely to start on a podunk liar like you.”

“Your honor!” Canelli said. “I object!”

“The objection is sustained.” Judge Pitcock’s voice was considerably colder than usual. “Restrain yourself, Mr. Kincaid, or there will be repercussions.”

Repercuss away, Ben thought silently. It was important that the jury knew how he felt about these accusations in no uncertain terms.

“Mr. Ellison, were you even at that wedding?”

“Of course I was. I said-”

“You’ve said a lot of things, and most of them were lies. I was at that wedding, and I don’t remember seeing you. Were you there?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“Why?” He seemed startled by the question. “To-to see the wedding.”

“But why? Do you go to all the weddings at St. Benedict’s?”

“I… knew some of the people involved.”

“Some of the people involved? You mean some of the people getting married?”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Who was getting married? Do you even know?”

Marco was beginning to twist uncomfortably. “Of course I know. There was… that guy who works with you. I’ve seen him in the courtroom.”

“Do you know his name?”

Canelli rose. “Your honor, I object. This quiz show about the wedding is not relevant.”

Judge Pitcock didn’t wait for Ben to respond. “I think I’ll allow it.”

“Jones!” Marco said triumphantly. “That’s his name. I don’t know his first name.”

Well, no one does. “And is that why you were there? Because you know Jones? Because he sure as heck doesn’t know you, and I can call him to the stand to say so, if necessary.”

“Uh, no. I was there for… the other one. The woman.”

“Patty?”

“Yeah, Patty. That’s right.”

Ben stepped away from the podium and faced the jury. “Her name is Paula.”

Now it was Marco’s turn to be angry. “He tricked me!” He turned toward the judge. “He tricked me!”

The judge nodded. “He certainly did.”

“I knew it was Paula. I just got confused.”

“Tell us the truth, Marco,” Ben said. “You weren’t there. You don’t even know who was getting married.”

“I was there. I was there because my girlfriend wanted to be there, okay? She knew one of the bridesmaids and she wanted to see the dresses and so we went there together.”

Ben didn’t let up. “So now you’re spinning a brand-new story for the jury. You certainly are an inventive fellow, Marco. You think well on your feet.”

“It’s true!”

“Then why didn’t you mention it before?”

“I had no reason to. Who cares why I was there?” He leaned forward, his arm outstretched. “Look, you can play your little games all you want. But I was at that wedding. And I saw that priest go to his office, just when I said I did. You’re calling me a liar because you know your client is a murderer!”

“Mr. Ellison!” Judge Pitcock pounded his gavel. “You will silence yourself immediately. You’re here to answer questions, not to make speeches.” He turned toward Ben. “Do you have anything more for this witness?”

Ben thought a long moment. He was never going to get this clown to admit he was lying. More questions would just lead to more impassioned diatribes, more insisting on Father Beale’s guilt. His trial lawyer instincts told him the smartest thing would be to stop now and go out on a good moment.

“No, your honor. I have no more use for this so-called witness.”

Judge Pitcock excused Marco from the stand, and Ben huddled with his co-counsel.

“What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Christina said. “I think he’s a lying, amoral piece of-”

“But the jury. Did they buy it?”

Christina turned her eyes back toward the fourteen faces she had been scrutinizing carefully throughout the testimony. “I just don’t know, Ben. You spun Marco around a little and made him look stupid, but I’m afraid they’ll just write that off as lawyer…”

“Games?”

“Well, yes. It’s what they expect to see on cross-ex. But it doesn’t really affect the substance of his testimony. If they believe he was there-”

“Then they’ll believe Father Beale was in his office at the time of the murder.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She glanced toward their client, who was staring straight ahead, his hands clasped, his expression fixed. “I think that’s what he’s afraid of, too.”

Marco’s testimony, Ben realized, following on the heels of the fingerprint evidence, had dealt them a serious blow. Every juror, whatever his or her disposition before, had to now be seriously contemplating the possibility that Father Beale was guilty.

And what Judge Pitcock had said during the bench conference was true. He had bent over backwards to give Father Beale a fair trial. Ben couldn’t remember a time when he’d had a fairer judge overseeing a capital case. Sometimes, they were so preposterously biased that the whole trial became a stacked battle more against the judge than the prosecutor. But not this time. There’d been no unfairness, no error. And if there was no procedural error, there could be no successful appeal.

Which meant Ben had to win this case at the trial. There would be no second chances.

Chapter 34

During the lunch break, Ben had the courtroom to himself. Which was fine-he liked it that way. All the other lawyers went to lunch; even Ben’s crew insisted on crossing the plaza to the cafeteria and ingesting high cholesterol foods in the name of nourishment. Certainly the clients went to lunch. But Ben remained in the courtroom, preparing for the afternoon ahead.

Being in trial was like nothing else. Ben sometimes compared it to being submerged in a bathysphere; the pressure of the trial pounded down on all sides at all times, while the world outside became increasingly distant and remote. One caught echoes from time to time, but it didn’t seem real. While a trial was on, only the courtroom was real, only the judge and the jury and anyone else you needed to get the job done. Everyone and everything else was too far removed to matter.

Which might explain why most people went to lunch-to recapture a tiny measure of the real world, if only for a brief time. But Ben wouldn’t allow it to himself, especially not during this case. Until the final rap of the gavel, his mind had to stay totally focused on the matter at hand. If he had fifteen spare minutes, that was fifteen minutes he’d spend preparing for whatever came next. Which in this case, was Ernestine. And he had lots to say to Ernestine. So he made sure he was ready. While the rest of the world went on without him.

Well, not entirely.

“I brought you back a sandwich,” Christina said, hovering over his shoulder. “Turkey wrap.”

Ben’s head remained buried in his papers. “No thanks.”

“I got it just for you.”

“Throw it away. Give it to the poor. Eat it yourself.”

“Well… no. It is rather disgusting. I also brought some tomato soup.”

“Thanks, but no.”

She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Ben, you have to keep your strength up.”

“Chocolate milk. Caffeine high. Adrenaline surge.”

“I’m serious, Ben.”

“Me too. No soup.”

“Then at least eat a few Fritos. I don’t want you to end up like my uncle Freddie. Did I ever tell you what happened to my uncle Freddie?”

He looked up from his papers. “If I say yes, will you not tell the story?”

She gave him a wry expression. “We worry about you, Ben, when you do your ascetic trial-addict routine.” Her voice dropped a notch. “I worry about you.”

“Don’t waste your energy. If you want to worry about something, worry about the case.”

“You’re doing enough of that for both of us. What is it about this one, anyway? Why are you so personally involved?”

“I told you. I’ve known Father Beale for years.”

“Don’t kid a kidder, Ben. There’s more to it than that.”

He returned his nose to his notebook. “I’m trying to help a man I know isn’t guilty.”

“How do you know?”

“I just… know, okay?”

Christina let him return to his work. But she slipped a half-full bag of Fritos into his attaché, just in case.

Ernestine Rupert tottered to the witness stand and performed exactly as Ben had expected, only better. For the prosecution, that is. Ben had hoped she would come off as a biased old biddy with an agenda, but instead, she seemed reasonable, tempered, even compassionate. Chalk one up for Canelli, or whoever was prepping his witnesses.

Canelli spent a good deal of time establishing that Ernestine was a respected member of the community, well-to-do widow, and the founder and chairman of the PCSC-an important civic organization. He didn’t mention that it was a pro-choice organization; that was too potentially controversial. Eventually, Canelli led her to the subject of the strife at St. Benedict’s.

“We tried to make the new priest work,” Ernestine explained patiently. “Tried every way we knew how. We didn’t want his ministry to fail. But no matter what we tried, it didn’t work, and no amount of effort was going to change that. Tensions grew and, in time, matured into outright hostility.”

“That must have been very painful.”

The blue-haired lady nodded. “I can’t tell you what a strain his hostility created, not only on myself, but the entire parish. I consider the people at St. Benedict’s my family. I love them all like brothers and sisters. It was as if some outsider had married into the family and begun systematically tearing it apart.”

“How was this hostility manifested?” Canelli asked. This was Ernestine’s cue to recount each and every outburst, every confrontation since Father Beale came to the church. Which she did. In detail. Some of them the jury had heard before, but it didn’t matter. Father Beale came off as an irrational, egomaniacal, uncaring man with an explosive temper he couldn’t control.

“At the last meeting before the murder, he totally lost control. He pounded on the table, his face red with rage, and shouted, ‘I won’t take this anymore!’ Shouted it as loud as he could, right in Kate’s face. And of course, soon after, she was dead.”

Canelli wrapped it up by bringing Ernestine to the fateful wedding and the confrontation in the corridor. Ernestine’s version had a few new wrinkles.

“I just happened to be in an alcove between the offices and the main corridor when the argument started. At first, I couldn’t help but listen and didn’t think anything of it. Then it became embarrassing. The fight just kept getting worse and worse, and I couldn’t come out without making it obvious I’d been there all along. I had to stay put.”

“So you heard the whole thing.”

Ernestine nodded. “Whether I liked it or not. And believe me, I didn’t like it. His language was grossly offensive. I’ve never heard such words-certainly not from a priest.”

“What was Kate McGuire saying?”

“She was telling him he was evil, or what he was doing was evil. She didn’t want it to continue. And he just kept on yelling at her. Finally, he threatened her. ‘I won’t put up with this,’ he said. ‘This isn’t over.’ ”

Canelli paused, allowing the grim words to sink in with the jury. “And the next time you saw Daniel Beale?” he asked finally.

“Was after the wedding. I was in the alcove again, and I saw him rush by, down the corridor toward the bathroom. His hands were red.” She paused, and her voice wavered slightly. “They were covered with blood.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Rupert,” Canelli said gravely. “No more questions.”

Ben scrutinized his opponent as he approached the podium. She sat prim and nearly motionless, poised in the chair with her handbag in her lap and her hands crossed over it. She was a sympathetic, somewhat vulnerable appearing woman, and Ben knew if he came down too hard on her, it might alienate some of the jurors. But in this case, that was just too damn bad.

“You must be awfully fond of that alcove,” Ben said, first off the bat. He let the declarative sentence hang in the air, giving everyone time to turn it around, consider it, guess where he was going.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well,” Ben explained, “twice you said you were hanging around in there by yourself, for no apparent reason. What gives? Have they got closed circuit TV in there?”

Ernestine ran her tongue along her teeth before answering. “No.”

“Then why were you in the alcove?”

Ernestine drew in a tiny breath, giving herself a moment to think. “I find it a quiet spot, somewhat secluded. A good place to gather my thoughts, meditate, pray.”

“Come now, Mrs. Rupert. I’ve seen the alcove. There’s not even a chair in there.”

“Nonetheless, I-”

“That’s where you meet your blackmail victims, isn’t it?”

Her head turned, at a small but unnatural angle. “Excuse me?”

“That’s where you meet the multitude of parishioners-the ones you love like brothers and sisters-who you’re blackmailing!” He said the word nice and loud, so everyone could hear it. “Right?”

“I-I sometimes meet people there. But I certainly never-”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to deny that you’re blackmailing several members of the church.”

“I-I do deny it. I would never-”

“I have witnesses, Mrs. Rupert.” Out the corner of his eye, he could see the jury leaning forward, craning their necks with interest. “Two members of my staff have observed you shaking someone down. I’ve witnessed it. I’ve seen you running off after services, or during choir practice, clutching your little blue account book. Where is that, anyway?”

She had reflexively glanced down at her lap before she could stop herself. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s in your purse, isn’t it? I figured as much; as far as I can tell you never go anywhere without it. Show it to the jury, Mrs. Rupert.”

“I have to object,” Canelli said. “These groundless accusations have nothing to do with the murder.”

“I think the relevance will be clear soon,” Ben replied, “if it isn’t already.”

Judge Pitcock nodded. “I’ll allow defense counsel some latitude. Proceed.”

“So what about it, Mrs. Rupert? Do you have your account book in your purse?”

She hesitated, obviously unsure what to say. “I… don’t really know…”

“Well, why don’t you take a look and see? I’m betting you do.”

She glanced at the judge. “No one told me my… purse would be searched. Can he do this?”

“I’m afraid he can, ma’am. If you brought it into the courtroom, it’s fair game.”

A frown settled on her face. She looked down, looked up, looked down again. Slowly her hand crept toward her handbag.

And emerged a few moments later holding the little blue book.

“May I approach?” Ben asked. The judge nodded. Ben strode forward, snatched the book, and began rifling through the pages.

“Lots of accounts in here, I see. Labeled by initials, rather than names. How discreet.” He held the pages up so the jury could see. “Looks to me like you’ve collected ten, maybe fifteen thousand dollars over the last few years.” He placed the book on the barrier between himself and the jury. “Are you still going to try to deny your blackmail operation, Mrs. Rupert?”

“It’s isn’t blackmail. I just-I like to lend money to people when they need it. To help out.”

“Oh, so this is a charitable operation, is it?”

“Well… not exactly. They pay back the money over time.”

“And then some, judging from this book.”

“Charging interest is traditional. That doesn’t make it blackmail.”

Ben moved in closer. “So if I call Alvin Greene or Paul Masterson to the stand, they’ll testify that you lent them money out of the kindness of your heart?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

“Shall we test that theory?”

Her eyes darted around the courtroom. Ben could see the wheels turning inside her head. Could he make good his threat? What would happen if he did?

“Tell the truth, Mrs. Rupert. Because I’m prepared to call everyone in your book to the stand if necessary. And now that the secret’s out, someone’s likely to tell the truth.”

Ernestine licked her lips pensively. She still didn’t answer.

“This didn’t have anything to do with lending money, did it? Much less charity. These aren’t interest payments you’re keeping track of. It’s blackmail! Admit it!”

Ernestine shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Make him stop,” she said quietly. “Won’t someone make him stop?”

“You spent your whole time at that church collecting information you could use to extract your blood money. You’d go to church socials and teas and dig around and gossip till you learned what you needed. Some tidbit about somebody’s past, or sexual preference, or whatever dark secret they didn’t want revealed, especially at church. And you’d use that to milk them dry.”

“It isn’t true.” She was talking more to herself than anyone else. “It isn’t.”

She was visibly shaken. Now was the time to tie it all back to the case. “But you know what initials I don’t see in this book? D.B. And that’s why you hated Father Beale, isn’t it? You couldn’t control him like you did the others. He wasn’t in the club. What’s more, if he ever found out about it, you knew he’d put an end to it. And you’d be without this lovely little income stream. So he became the enemy.”

Ernestine’s face was blotching. “It isn’t so. That isn’t-”

“And that’s why you’re testifying against him now, isn’t it? That’s why you’re so bound and determined to say whatever it takes to get him out and get in some other priest you can control. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? You’re protecting your dirty little extortion racket.”

Ernestine twisted around, breathing rapidly. “You’re wrong. That isn’t why.”

“So says the blackmailer. But how can we believe anything you say? You’re a major felon.”

“I-I don’t-”

“Tell us the truth, Ernestine. You hate Father Beale, don’t you? You hate him so much you’ll do or say anything to get rid of him.”

“Yes!” she said, with a sudden shattering intensity. “Yes, I hate him!”

“Because you were afraid he’d quash your dirty blackmail scheme.”

“Because he destroyed our church!”

“Because you couldn’t control him.”

“Because he’s had sex with every woman he could get his filthy hands on!” Her voice echoed through the courtroom, leaving only stunned silence in its wake.

Ben took a step back. “Because-what-”

“You heard what I said. He’s been with all of them. All the women who died. And many more.”

Ben moved fast to control the damage. “If you think you can exonerate yourself by telling more lies, you’ve-”

“It isn’t a lie. It’s the truth.”

“Your honor,” Ben said, “I move to strike. The witness is not being responsive. This is just character assassination!”

Judge Pitcock shook his head. “Sorry, counsel. You opened the door to this. Overruled.”

Ben redirected his fury at the witness. “Do you have any proof of your scurrilous accusations?”

“I don’t need proof.”

“If you don’t have any proof, then keep your-”

“Ask anyone. Anyone!”

“Is this something you’ve actually witnessed, or are you just circulating more ugly gossip? Maybe you’re hoping you can add Father Beale to your blackmail list after all.”

“Ask Carol!” she said, pointing to a woman in the rear of the gallery. “Ask anyone!” She was leaning forward, screaming. “We don’t talk about it, because everyone’s involved. Because he’s had sex with so many of them. And he’s dragged everyone else down into his dirty game.”

Ben could feel the trial spiraling out of his control. How had this happened?

He glanced back at Father Beale. His face was expressionless, but there were crinkles around his eyes that Ben didn’t know how to read.

And behind him, in the gallery, his wife, Andrea, sat, her face covered with tears. She bent forward and buried her face in her hands.

“It’s true,” Ernestine repeated unbidden. “Ask anyone. Anyone at all.”

Ben had to get rid of this woman, and quick. Whatever good he may have done before was unraveling at the speed of light. “No more questions, your honor.”

“It’s true! Ask anyone!”

“No more questions!”

Judge Pitcock excused Ernestine from the witness stand, but even after she was gone, Ben could hear her words echoing in his brain. And he was certain they were rattling around in the jurors’ brains as well.

It’s true! Ask anyone! He wanted to ask Father Beale, but he couldn’t talk to him, not now, not while the jury was watching. He had to act as if this were no great surprise, as if he already knew there was nothing to it. Even though the cold chill creeping up his spine told him this trial had just hit a snag he wasn’t going to be able to finesse his way around.

Chapter 35

The Gospel According to Daniel

I suppose, upon reflection, what happened at this stage of the proceedings could be viewed as a classic example of an age-old philosophical problem. Certainly since the earliest stages of introspective thought, the subject of self-examination, of scrutinizing one’s own soul, has been discussed and debated. Know thyself, Socrates said. That is the first step toward knowledge. But most readers have missed the point of the statement. Socrates was not saying that self-knowledge was the first step toward genius. Socrates’ point was that no one ever really knows themselves, and thus, all attempts at higher knowledge are inherently flawed by the faulty foundation upon which the search is based.

At this point in the trial, I realized how right Socrates was. I had considered these issues a million or more times. I had weighed and examined; I had debated time and again-with myself. But there comes a time when one has to move beyond that, when one must take the next step. Expose your analysis to peer review, the academics would say. Or as the more tough-minded souls in my youth group might phrase it-face up to your own bullshit.

The irony of the situation was not lost on me, even as it was happening, even as our defense was crumbling right before my eyes. Hours and hours we had spent bracing ourselves for the worst, but when the worst came, it was from a quarter no one expected. We had worked to confront the enemies; we were prepared to meet the attacks of the prosecution. We were ready to counter and thrust, to expose and embarrass, to do whatever was necessary to defeat these opponents. But when the killing stroke was finally delivered, it came from an enemy for whom none of us were prepared-not Ben, not Christina, and not me. When the end finally came, I had no one to blame.

Because the enemy who finally destroyed me was myself.

“Wife-swapping?” Canelli said, repeating an attention-grabbing word Ben had never expected to hear in this murder trial-or any other, for that matter. Funny how these things sometimes took directions that were totally unexpected, that for all your preparation you couldn’t possibly anticipate. Except that it wasn’t funny. Not at all.

“That was what it amounted to,” Carol Mason replied. She was a thin woman, but she seemed even thinner on the stand, flimsy and vulnerable, without visible means of support. Ben had admired her beauty before, but all that seemed flattened out now, submerged by the misery that overwhelmed her. “They don’t use that terminology. They prefer to call themselves lifestyle couples. But it’s the same thing.”

“And how many people in the church were involved in this?”

“The count varied. But almost everyone in the thirty-to-fifty age range tried it at one time or another. And the few who didn’t knew about it. We were pretty good about containment; the knowledge stayed within the church. New members had to be with the church for at least a year before they were invited to… participate.”

“Why were so many people involved?”

“Because our priest wanted us to be. He was the mastermind.”

Canelli stepped back from the podium, a shocked expression on his face. Ben couldn’t tell how much was show. Had he anticipated the way this juicy tidbit might slip out during Ernestine’s cross? If he had tried to broach this subject on direct, their family values-minded judge would’ve shut him down. It had to come in through the back door. Was that why Canelli saved Ernestine and Carol for the end?

Ben supposed he would never be certain. And what did it matter? Planned or not, the testimony was devastating. Ben had fought and argued, hauled out precedent after precedent, but the judge didn’t rule in his favor, as indeed Ben knew he couldn’t. Ben had opened the door to this testimony during the cross of Ernestine Rupert. Anything the prosecution did with it now was fair game. It related not only to credibility and character and truthfulness-but to the very issue of motive itself. It was coming in.

“How did it start?” Canelli finally asked.

“It may seem bizarre-and I suppose it was-but Father Beale introduced this… concept soon after he came to St. Benedict’s, no differently than he would any other Christian education program.”

Canelli blinked. “Christian education?”

Carol nodded. “That’s how he saw it. Liberated Christians, that’s what he called us. He had this whole spiel. I couldn’t repeat it all, but the basic idea was that sex was separate from morals, that sex could be recreational without impugning any moral truths, that people had misinterpreted the Bible to lock sex up in a closet where it was never supposed to be. Jesus was not a prude, that’s what he kept saying. It was like a slogan for him-a higher truth.”

Ben felt the eyes in the courtroom burning across counsel table, scrutinizing Father Beale. A priest on trial for his beliefs was a potentially sympathetic situation. But a blasphemer and sex fiend was something else altogether.

“And so people joined this… Liberated Christians group?”

“Oh, yes. At first just a few. But then word got around and more joined. And then more and more. Husbands would bring their wives, wives would force their husbands.”

“And you also joined?”

“Yes.” Carol’s hand rose to her face; she bit down on her knuckle. “I didn’t want to. It was my husband, Bobby. He was keen to give it a try. I guess he’s… more adventurous than I am. ‘What can it hurt?’ he kept saying. ‘Everyone’s doing it. Let’s just give it a go and see if we like it.’ ”

“So you consented.”

“He kept pushing and pushing and he wouldn’t stop. After a while, I couldn’t say no anymore. But I still wasn’t… ready. Especially for what went on at those meetings. Bobby would encourage me to dress differently, like some of the other women did. ‘Come on, show off your tits and ass.’ That’s what he’d say. And I did it. God knows, I did it. I felt so debased. So humiliated.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“No.” The knuckle, braced against her mouth, began to tremble. “I didn’t like it at all. I thought it was evil. Sinful and evil. It disgusted me. And I wasn’t the only one, either. I knew other women who felt the same way. They went along with it, but they suffered afterward. They were led to evil, tempted by the man who came to us as our spiritual leader.”

“Objection,” Ben said quietly. No reason to make a bigger fuss than necessary; the jury’s sympathies had to be with this obviously distraught woman. “The witness is characterizing, not testifying.”

Judge Pitcock nodded. “Mrs. Mason, please restrict yourself to recounting what you’ve actually seen or heard.”

“Yes, your honor.”

Canelli jumped in to guide her back on course. “Mrs. Mason, could you please describe… what took place at these meetings?”

Carol closed her eyes for a long moment, as if gathering her strength. Then, slowly and deliberately, she began. “They weren’t all the same. We had several different types of meetings. At the church meetings, on Wednesday nights, we just talked, believe it or not. Father Beale would lead us in a discussion of the supposed philosophical and even Biblical underpinnings of what we were doing. His theory was that recreational sex was a healthy thing and when practiced by couples-here’s the bizarre part-that it would actually strengthen our marriages. In his twisted mind, this was marriage counseling.” She paused. “Other times, we would meet at someone’s house or, twice a year, we’d have a retreat, usually at a somewhat secluded motel in another state.”

“And why did you need privacy?”

Her voice dropped off. “I would think that was obvious.”

“What did you do on these retreats?”

Carol seemed tired, without energy, like a rag doll with her stuffings ripped out. “Imagine the worst. Mix a nudist camp with an orgy scene from some Roman gladiator movie, and you’ve just about got it.”

“You didn’t wear clothes?”

“That was left to the individual, but when we were in our private meetings, most people wore… well, less than they normally would. Or nothing at all. Booze flowed freely; that made it easier for some people. We’d do nude swimming. Messing around in hot tubs. Sometimes we’d all watch porn videos, just to get worked up. Sometimes we would play little games.”

“Games?”

“Icebreakers. You know, to get to know one another.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, God.” She pressed a hand against a temple. “We played one that was kind of like spin the bottle, only instead of giving kisses, if the bottle pointed to you, you’d have to… perform oral gratification. We had a sundae party, where people smeared whipped cream and toppings on themselves and you had to lick it off. The men had a contest once to see who had the longest tongue, for… obvious reasons. One night we lined up in a big chain, like a bunny hop, except we were naked and the music was Ravel’s Boléro, and we all performed massages on one another.”

“The purpose of these games, I suppose, was to… stimulate sexual interest?”

“Yes. And help decide who was going off with whom.”

“And once the pairing was complete?”

“It varied. Sometimes, we’d do private encounters in separate rooms. And sometimes… not.” She drew in her breath, steeling herself. “Some people liked to watch-they’d stand there and observe while their spouse made love to another person. Sometimes we’d all do it in the same big living room. Together. Me and the Altar Guild ladies and the preschool teachers and whoever else.” Her voice choked, like a gagging reflex was kicking in. “One big Christian orgy.”

“You’re telling us that… sexual intercourse took place?”

“In every way, shape and form that you can imagine. Wanna do it a little differently from the way your spouse does it? Here’s your big chance. You like bondage? There’d be somebody there with your taste. Into pain? Someone’s waiting for you.”

“And you took part in this activity?”

Carol closed her eyes tightly, but a tear still crept through. “Yes. I did. To my eternal shame. Me and all my friends, all the people I loved most in the world.”

“And Father Beale also took part in this sexual activity?”

“Took part? He was the main man.”

Again, Ben could feel the heat of the jury’s eyes. He was only glad Andrea had excused herself from the courtroom-at Ben’s suggestion. Ben knew the jury would notice she was gone, but it was better that they see the empty seat than that they see the priest’s wife break down in open court.

“He had sex with other women in the church?”

“Anyone. Anyone he could get.”

“Including…”

“Yes,” she said, speaking more quietly than before. “Even me.”

“And his wife knew about this?”

“Of course she did. She was there. This was a couples event, remember? I don’t think she ever enjoyed it. I don’t think she derived pleasure from watching her husband-the-priest prance around like a great big stud horse. But she certainly knew. We all knew.”

“How long did this last?”

Carol considered. “I would guess it ran for close to three years without any serious problems. Then everything started to unravel. I wasn’t the only one who was getting sickened by it. Helen Conrad was the first to admit it. She got a group of the women together and we talked. Helen was so racked with guilt I thought she might be suicidal. She prayed for forgiveness all day long-but never found any relief. After she was killed, I think we all secretly wondered if she had been punished for what she had done. And which one of us might be next. We wanted it to stop, or at the very least, to stop having the official imprimatur of our church. But Father Beale wouldn’t hear of it. He thought we were doing something important, something progressive. He was really into it. And he didn’t want it to end.”

“What was the result?”

“The result was that Father Beale began having problems with the church, the vestry, the parishioners. First it was just a few of us, but it grew beyond that. There was definitely a backlash on all fronts. It was like, Okay, we’ve had our fun. Let’s end this before we get caught. But Father Beale wouldn’t consent. He wouldn’t-or couldn’t-quit. He was totally addicted to it-the sex, the power, the women.”

“Was this when the vestry began to have serious disagreements with Father Beale?”

“Yes. I mean, we never said, ‘Hey, this is because we want the orgies to stop.’ We couldn’t put that in the minutes, could we? Especially not when copies go to the bishop. We never publicly acknowledged what we were doing, not outside the Liberated Christian meetings. But that’s what the dissension was all about.”

“Had some of the vestry members been… involved?”

“Yeah, all of them, I think. Except Ruth O’Connell and Ernestine Rupert, and they certainly knew about it. By the time last year rolled around, Father Beale was confronted by a vestry that was almost uniformly opposed to him. We talked about politics and liturgical issues, but that wasn’t what was in our hearts. What we wanted most. We all knew it wasn’t about… gay rights, or whatever. It was about getting rid of the priest who had turned our sweet little church into a whorehouse.”

“Was Kate McGuire one of the women who had been with Father Beale?”

“Oh, yes. Many times. And so were the other two women who were killed.”

“And was she one of the women who wanted Father Beale to stop these sexual activities? To leave?”

“One of the strongest. Kate got into some major fights with him. She was having a breakdown, truth be told. She couldn’t handle it any more. She was undergoing a major guilt attack. She was engaged to be married, you know, even while this was going on. She felt dirty all the time, couldn’t get clean. She’d shower three times a day, but it didn’t help. And she couldn’t get any help from her spiritual advisor-because he was the one who had dirtied her.”

“Was she doing anything other than fighting with him?”

“Yes. She made threats-we all heard them. She said if he didn’t stop it, she’d report him to the ecclesiastical court.” She let out a wry, bitter chuckle. “He kept saying there was nothing wrong with what we were doing. Fine then-let’s hear it from the bishop.” She lowered her eyes. “I suspect he would’ve had a different viewpoint.”

“So she threatened to expose him?”

“She threatened to blow the whole thing wide open. Father Beale would never have worked again-if she hadn’t been killed. In his office.”

The leaden silence that blanketed the courtroom was almost unbearable. Ben tried to shake it off, tried not to let these stunning revelations prevent his brain from functioning.

“Why have you come forward now?”

Carol thought several moments before answering. “I feel bad about it. I feel like I’m betraying everyone in the church. Exposing everyone’s secrets. But-that’s why we couldn’t get anything done. Because everything was a secret. No one wanted to talk about it.” She lowered her head. “I just thought-if someone doesn’t talk about it someday, it will never stop. Never. And I couldn’t stand that. I just… couldn’t stand it.”

“I think we all know what you’re saying,” Canelli murmured.

“You can’t understand what it was like,” Carol said, her voice cracking. “St. Benedict’s meant so much to me. When I first came here, I was a mess, but the people at St. Benedict’s helped me find my way. Helped me find my center. I used to say that church must’ve been built on holy ground-that’s how much it meant to me. And now, to have all that taken away, stolen, and transformed into something grotesque and horrible and… dirty.” Tears poured down her face. She braced herself against the railing, barely able to hold herself up. “I couldn’t bear it. None of us could.”

“Thank you,” Canelli said quietly. He turned toward Ben. “Your witness.”

Ben pushed himself to his feet, his brain racing at the speed of light. What could he do with her? Her delicate emotional state made any rough tactics impossible. What could he hope to accomplish? She didn’t testify that Father Beale had committed the murder, not exactly. She had just supplied the motive, the emotional prop for the eyewitness and physical evidence that was already incriminating him.

Father Beale had remained silent throughout her testimony-no quizzical expressions, no outbursts, no scribbled notes. Ben leaned close to him and whispered one question.

“Is she lying?”

It took him a moment to respond, but when he did, what he said was unequivocal. “No.”

“Mr. Kincaid,” Judge Pitcock said. “The witness is yours.”

“No questions,” Ben answered. “Nothing for this witness.”

The judge’s double-take lasted barely a second; he was too seasoned a pro to let his thoughts show. “This is your last chance, Mr. Kincaid. To examine this witness on behalf of your… client.” Even without an accompanying facial expression, the simple way he said the word was enough to tell Ben what Judge Pitcock thought of his client now. The jurist whose decisions were driven by a respect for family values was not likely to be a fan of the wife-swapping priest. There would be no more favors from him.

“No questions, your honor.”

“Very well. Mr. Canelli?”

“That’s all we have, your honor. The prosecution rests.”

Pitcock glanced at his watch. “Very well. I think we’ve had enough for today. We’ll start tomorrow morning at nine with the first witness for the defense.” He gave the jury the usual instructions, then adjourned.

Ben didn’t waste any time. “Everyone leaves by the rear exit. Conference at the office in thirty minutes.”

He looked down at Father Beale, trying not to let what he was thinking and feeling show in his face. “That includes you.”

“I’ll be there,” Beale replied. “I’ll have the marshals take me directly. No dinner stop.”

“Good.” Ben turned toward Christina. “Order in food. We’re going to be working late.”

“Understood.”

“No talking to the press. Not one word. Nothing they can use on the ten o’clock news. Not even a ‘no comment.’ ”

“Got it.”

“Good. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

For once, Ben did not mentally rehash the day’s trial as he left the courtroom. Far from it-he tried to put it out of his mind. He knew what had just happened-far too well. In a few short minutes, everything had changed. The problems he confronted now were not the same ones that had faced him before. The trial he was working now was not the same trial he had been working before. And the man he was defending was not the same person he had been defending a few moments before-and never would be to Ben again.

Chapter 36

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ben demanded.

Father Beale wasn’t making eye contact. “It isn’t the sort of thing that comes up in casual conversation.”

“I told you that you had to tell me everything. Everything that could possibly be relevant to the trial.”

“I didn’t see that it was relevant.”

“You didn’t? The real reason there’s so much antipathy against you in that church, and you didn’t think it mattered?”

“I didn’t think it would come up. I didn’t think anyone would talk. We made a promise to one another, a solemn oath. How was I to know that Carol would-”

“You weren’t supposed to guess what witnesses might do. That’s my job! But I can’t do it if I don’t know everything there is to know about them. I was blindsided in there! Canelli destroyed us, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it because I didn’t know what the hell was going on!”

Ben braced himself against the conference table. He knew this tirade wasn’t going to get them anywhere. But he couldn’t help himself. Part of it was despair-he knew what had happened to their case in the courtroom today. But there was more. Irrational or not, he also felt a sense of… betrayal.

“Let’s all calm down for a moment and figure out what we need to do next,” Christina said. She was the only other person in the room, and given the delicate matters to be discussed, Ben suspected Father Beale would probably prefer she weren’t around. Too damn bad. Ben needed her-now more than ever. “What’s happened has happened. We need a plan.”

Ben threw his hands up. “A plan? As if we had a choice. Here’s our plan. Father Beale has to take the witness stand.”

Beale looked up. “I thought you were opposed to that.”

“I was opposed to it! I’m still opposed to it. Don’t you understand? We don’t have any choice!”

“Ben,” Christina said, “we have other people we could call. Character witnesses and such.”

“And believe me, we will. But that’s not going to cut it. Because at this point, the only thing the jurors are going to care about is the Great St. Benedict’s Wife-Swap-A-Rama. And who are we going to get to testify about that? Dr. Ruth?”

“Actually,” Father Beale said, “wife-swapping is a rather sexist term. We prefer to call ourselves lifestyle couples.”

“Don’t give me your little PC lecture. I don’t care what you call yourselves!”

“Ben…” Christina said.

“Well, I don’t!”

“Ben… you’re acting out. You’re personalizing this. I don’t know why, but-”

“I’m not personalizing. I’m just sorry to see a trial we’ve all worked so hard on fall apart at the seams.”

There. He’d said it. Everyone knew it already, but now he’d said it. It was on the table. Probably not an ABA-approved technique for counseling your client, but at least now they all knew where they stood.

“Fine,” Father Beale said. “I’ll testify. I always wanted to.”

“Well, you get your wish,” Ben said angrily. “And you’d better be good, because frankly-you’re your only hope.”

“I’ll do whatever you tell me.”

“You’re going to have to give the jury some credible explanation for all this lifestyle couple crap. Something that seems rational, if not acceptable. Make it sound as if you really thought you were accomplishing something, as opposed to just being a horny old man trying to get some.”

Beale’s neck stiffened. “I’ll… do my best.”

“You’re never going to get an Oklahoma jury to agree that wife-swapping is a good, healthy thing. But at least you can try to convince them it wasn’t a motive for murder.”

“I understand.”

“And make no mistake-Canelli will be gunning for you. He’s found your weakness. He’ll try to use it to bury you.”

“Understood.”

“Good.” Ben pushed away from the table, walked to the window, and stared out at the horizon.

“So…” Christina said, “… are we ready to proceed? We’re going to have to map out this direct. We have to cover a lot of bases. We want to make sure we don’t leave anything out.”

“Damn straight.”

“We still have a few advantages. Canelli will want to cross on the lifestyle stuff, but if we volunteer it on direct, that’ll undercut him. And so long as we don’t introduce evidence regarding Father Beale’s propensity for honesty or truthfulness, Canelli won’t be able to use past acts to incriminate him.”

“Yes,” Ben said, still gazing out the window. “We’ll map out the perfect direct examination, and we’ll practice it, and we’ll practice it again, and we’ll practice it again, until we all know it so well we could do it in our sleep.” He slowly returned to the table. “But I have one question for you first, Father. One little question. And I’d better like the answer.”

Father Beale sat up straight. “Yes?”

Ben leaned across the table like a vulture. He stared directly into his client’s eyes. “Is there anything else?”

Beale did not need clarification. “No. Nothing else. No more secrets. Nothing I haven’t told you.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m… absolutely positive.”

“You’d damn well better be.” Ben yanked a chair out from under the table and thought he finally might be able to sit down. “Now let’s get to work.”

“Is she dead?”

“Not yet. But she will be.”

Manly gazed down at her prostrate figure, head tilted to one side, legs bent back at an unnatural angle. “Put up a pretty good fight. Better than you’d expect. Till I clubbed her on the back of the head.”

“You sound as if you admire her.”

Manly paused, uncommonly reflective for once. “I admire conviction. I may not agree with her. She was, after all, part of the conspiracy to kill helpless children. But I think she at least believed in what she was doing. And she didn’t give up easily.”

“I thought you weren’t going to… advance the program this early on.”

“She was getting away. And she’d seen me. I had no choice.”

No choice, his friend thought, because you bungled everything in your usual stupid way.

“Do you think she’s dreaming?” Manly asked.

“I don’t know. If you’d like, I’ll club you over the head. Then you can report back to me.”

“Pass. Still, she seems so peaceful.”

“Not as peaceful as she’ll seem… after you finish.”

“True,” Manly said, nodding. “All too true.” He reached out with his hands, his fingers curled like claws.

“You’re going to strangle her? Like the others?”

Manly’s face twisted around until, finally, it resolved itself in a strange sort of smile. “Yes,” he said, as his hands clenched her throat. “Like the others.”