“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?”