“That’s the charge, sir,” Ben replied. “At least, until the preliminary hearing.”

“Murder in the first degree,” the judge murmured. He glanced over at Father Beale, who was sitting at the table behind Ben. He arched an eyebrow. “Bail?”

“Yes, your honor. Absolutely. This is not your run-of-the-mill murder case.”

“I hope I never get to the point where I perceive any murder case as run-of-the-mill.”

“Of course you’re right, your honor. Let me explain.” Ben paused, using a deep breath as an excuse to slow down and think. He had to approach this argument carefully. Judge Pitcock, Ben knew, was not your standard issue hardcase war-on-crime judge. He was a reasonable man, a family man, a practicing Mormon. He believed in redemption, both in the church and in the courtroom. Ben liked him and was thrilled when he learned that he had been assigned to the Beale case. In Tulsa, Oklahoma, Pitcock was about as good as it got for defense attorneys.

Pitcock’s soft spot, as a general rule, was the sanctity of the family. Over the years, Ben had learned that he had a chance of persuading the man of almost anything if he could couch the argument in terms of the sanctity of the family. As in: Yes, your honor, he stole a loaf of bread, but it was to feed his starving family. Or: Your honor, if you give him the maximum, it will do irreparable damage to the psychological well-being of his six children. Or even: Yes, your honor, he robbed a bank-everyone makes mistakes-but he’s a very loving and attentive father…

The present case didn’t immediately lend itself to this approach. But Ben had a theory…

“Yes, sir. I’m quite serious about asking for bail. As I’m sure your honor is already aware, we’re not dealing with a hardened criminal here. We’re not taking about someone who ran a meth lab or hustled prostitutes. We’re talking about a priest. A man of God. There’s a bit of a difference.”

“I have to disagree,” Canelli said, predictably inserting himself into Ben’s argument. His enormous height advantage made him seem to tower over Ben. “This man committed a murder.”

“Accused,” Ben inserted harshly.

“Probably two,” Canelli continued. “As soon as that happened, he became a criminal, no better than the punk running the meth lab or hustling prostitutes.”

“This is not the place to argue guilt or innocence,” Ben said. “This is an arraignment, not a trial. And what I’m saying is, the risks that are normally attendant to anyone accused of murder simply do not apply here. Even the prosecution is not suggesting that this man is a psychopath or sociopath. Even viewing their evidence in the most favorable light-which takes some doing-their theory is that he was pressured and pressured and finally lost his temper-hardly a situation likely to occur again. He has strong ties to the community-the strongest possible, I would argue. He is well known and has many friends and connections throughout the city. The risk of flight is virtually zero.”

Judge Pitcock nodded thoughtfully. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. His hair was pure white-prematurely so, given that he was only a few years older than Ben. In most situations, that would have been a detriment, but for a judge, it was an asset. It seemed to give him the sense of seniority, the gravitas, that a young man might otherwise have lacked. “I hear what you’re saying, counsel. But still-the charge is first-degree murder and-”

“Let me say one thing more, your honor, if I may.”

Pitcock shrugged. “You may speak, but I really don’t-”

“I know that in the past we’ve talked about the importance of the family, and the sanctity of the family unit, and you’ve very candidly expressed your concerns about what’s happening in this modern world, how the family is being torn apart by outside forces that sometimes seem unstoppable and irresistible. Because I know you’re sincere in your beliefs, and because I know you’re the kind of judge who means what he says, I must urge you to allow bail to issue in this case.”

A crease appeared in the center of the judge’s forehead. “Is Father Beale a family man?”

Canelli inched forward. “He has a wife, sir. No children.”

“Then I don’t understand-”

“Your honor,” Ben continued, “I would suggest that Father Beale has the largest family, the most important family-and the most threatened family-in our modern community. Because his family is the church. His family is the four hundred and thirteen people that compose the parish of St. Benedict’s. These are the people who look up to Father Beale, who love and respect him”-Ben worked mightily to maintain a straight face-“who look to him for spiritual guidance. His family is the family of God. Is there any family more important?”

Canelli looked disgusted. “Oh, puh-lese-”

Ben ignored him. “As your honor well knows, in this modern, seemingly godless world, the church is being attacked from all directions. Assaults on faith-and those who have it-have become so commonplace that we almost don’t even notice. Some people have already perceived the arrest of Father Beale-on the thinnest of evidence-as an assault by an atheistic and amoral government on the traditional church. And now, if Father Beale is torn away from his flock at the time of its greatest need, it will do irreparable damage to that little church. It will do irreparable damage to the community of God.” Ben stepped forward. “I urge this court-indeed, I implore it, not to let that happen.”

Both attorneys stared straight ahead, trying to read the judge’s professionally inscrutable face. Seconds ticked by like hours. Pitcock rattled the papers on his desk, read and reread, frowned. He stared across the courtroom at Father Beale, in his orange coveralls, seated at the table behind the attorneys, flanked by two men from the sheriff’s office.

Finally he spoke. “Will you wear a collar?”

Ben knew Father Beale would understand what the judge meant; Ben had briefed him on the possibility of being released with the proviso that he wear an electronic tracing collar that would allow the sheriff’s office to monitor his location at all times.

Father Beale slowly rose to his feet. “I already wear one collar,” he said, with a faint trace of a smile. “Why not another?”

“Good.” Pitcock reached for his gavel. “Counsel, I am persuaded by some of your remarks that this case does require special consideration. What’s more-I’m moved by your thoughtful and eloquent argument. We are dealing here with a trusted counselor in whom many have invested their faith, and even when faced with charges that seem…” He paused, glancing at Canelli. “… difficult to believe with regard to the defendant in question, some special accommodation seems appropriate. The court rules that bail will issue in this case, with the requirement that the defendant wear an electronic tracing unit at all times. Any attempt to remove the collar, or to leave the fifty-mile radius of its effective range, will result in the immediate and permanent revocation of bail.”

Canelli leaned forward, obviously agitated. “Is there going to be a financial requirement?”

“From a priest?” Pitcock looked at him as if he were some sort of bug. “The court has ruled. This arraignment is concluded. The court is in recess.” He banged the gavel, then excused himself out the back door of the courtroom.

As soon as the judge was gone, Canelli whipped around to confront Ben. “I thought I’d seen it all, Kincaid, but this has got to be an all-time low, even for you. Playing the God card.”

“I’m just doing my job, Canelli.”

“In the sleaziest possible way.”

“Don’t be a sore loser.”

“You’ll resort to anything, won’t you?”

“I’ll use the natural and obvious argument in my client’s favor, yes.” He turned and began repacking his briefcase.

“You embarrassed me in front of the judge. I won’t forget that.”