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.”