“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.