Criminal intent, p.18
Criminal Intent, page 18
“Look,” Ben said, “you’re a great girl, but you’re just fifteen and I can’t date you.”
“Fine,” she said quietly.
“But I’m thinking this summer, when school lets out, I am going to have to hire a clerk for my law office.”
Her head turned up. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. And I can’t think of anyone who’d be better for the job than you. Since you’re an aspiring attorney and all.”
Her face was transformed by an unrestrained grin. “Seriously? And I could work with you on all your important life-or-death cases and stuff?”
“Well . . . in some capacity.”
“And you’d pay me and everything?”
“Of course.” He couldn’t wait to see the expression on Jones’s face when he heard about this.
Judy was bouncing up and down, bubbling with excitement. “Maura! He’s going to let me come to his office and work with him and be part of his elite dream team!” She stopped suddenly. “But what about Maura? Could you find a job for her? Maybe she could mop the floors or something.”
“I don’t mop,” Maura said flatly.
“I’m sure we could find something for you to do, Maura. If that’s what you want.”
“Oh, I’m so excited!” Judy said, bouncing again. “Thank you so much!” She plunged forward and, before Ben could avoid it, wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now get home, both of you.”
He watched as the two girls skittered out the door, talking excitedly as they went. Well, it would be fun to have some new blood in the office, come summer. And they could use an extra hand or two, particularly during trial crunch times. Although, if Christina and Judy ever got together, they might create an elemental force unstoppable by mortal man.
Well, he’d worry about that in June. For now, he had a trial coming up. He needed to get home and—
A terrifying scream pierced the darkness, splitting the night apart. Ben froze.
“Judy! Maura!”
If anything, the night seemed even darker than it had before. The lights in the church were out. Ben saw two shadowy figures about ten feet away, in the direction of the street, huddled beneath a river birch. He ran toward them.
“Judy? Maura? Was that you?”
“It was Judy.” Closer now, and with the faint glow of a street light somewhere on Seventy-first, he could barely make out their faces. “She got scared.”
Judy was sitting on the ground, her hands pressed against her face, breathing hard enough to induce hyperventilation.
“Take it easy,” Ben said, crouching beside her. He put his hand on her shoulder and tried to calm her. “You’re okay. What happened?”
“I—don’t—know,” she choked out between gasps. “I guess I panicked.”
“Why?”
“We—we were walking toward the street, and suddenly the lights in the church went out, and I felt something on my shoulder and—and—I guess I just freaked.” Her eyes were wide and teary. “I guess it was just the tree branch, but I thought I was dead. I thought—I thought—”
“I know what you thought,” Ben said. After two murders, who could blame her? He looked over his shoulder, back at the church. Sure enough, the lights in the top windows were now out. “Can you walk okay?”
“I—guess so,” Judy said quietly.
“Good girl. Now both of you—get out of here. Don’t stop till you’re home.”
Judy and Maura linked arms and started back toward the street. Ben headed for the back door of the church.
Inside was even blacker than out; all the lights appeared to be dead. He could hear movement and whispers in the parish hall.
“Is everyone all right?” Ben asked, shouting at figures he could barely perceive.
“How the hell should we know?” someone replied—George, Ben thought. “I can’t see a damn thing.”
“What happened?”
“The lights went out,” replied an older female voice. Ruth? Ernestine? He couldn’t be sure. “We were conducting our meeting, having the usual titanic shouting match with our priest, and then suddenly everything went black.”
“Father Beale? Are you there?”
There was no answer. Ben felt the short hairs rise on the back of his neck. Where was he?
“Father Beale?” Still no answer. Clinging to the wall to guide himself, Ben entered the main corridor. “Father Beale?”
The response came as a thunderclap of shouts and ear-piercing screams. The tumult sideswiped him like a knockout punch from a prizefighter. He reeled, trying to figure out from which direction it came. How many times had he heard screams in this church? he asked himself as he raced down the corridor. How many times had his flesh crawled and his knees knocked, dreading what he might find?
He was one of the last to make it to the utility area behind the parish hall. Most of the vestry were already there, and one of them—George—had managed to locate a flashlight. Courtesy of the illumination of the narrow beam, Ben could see that the room was in disarray—folding chairs fallen and scattered on the floor, overturned tables. The breaker box was hanging open.
And Susan Marino’s upright body was in the center of it all, the side of her head covered with blood, her eyes lifeless.
She was dead. Ben could see that in an instant. And he could also see how she managed to remain upright.
Father Beale was behind her, cradling her in his arms.
Two
* * *
The Gospel Truth
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.”
