The Gospel According to Daniel

I am not normally given to introspective writing, to self-immortalization, having throughout my career preferred to devote my time to others rather than myself. Moreover, given my current circumstances, this hardly seems a time conducive to starting new projects. I take this pen in hand now, however, at the urging of my attorney. He tells me I should write down everything, just as I remember it, from the very beginning of this protracted ordeal. For myself, I can think of nothing more dreadful, more unbearably harsh. But given my present situation, I must do what my counsel bids, no matter how unpleasant.

I cannot conceive of why this has happened to me, what possible purpose it could serve. True, God tested Job, but Job was a great man, a true servant of God. I’ve been nothing but a parish priest in a midsize church, and at times, not a very good one. True, our Savior was tested for forty days in the desert, but he was the Son of God. Satan needs no elaborate ritual to tempt me; I have succumbed far too often, with no malicious imp to blame for my own failings. In the dark of night, I am still tormented by secrets, things I have told no one, and hope to God I never shall.

Do I deserve the misery that has befallen me? I cannot believe that I do. I would not wish this on the vilest of sinners, the most heinous of infidels. I pray at night, when I am alone and no one is watching, as my Savior prayed before me, Father, let this cup pass from me. But I know in my heart that there will be no divine intervention. The sad truth is that my fate now rests in the hands of lawyers and judges-a considerably less divine and more fallible audience.

I have titled this document, perhaps in a moment of self-pity or would-be martyrdom, “The Gospel According to Daniel.” The word gospel, of course, was originally derived from Greek words meaning good news. It is familiarly linked with another important word-truth.

I just pray to God that this is. I’m not sure I know what the word means anymore.

Ben sat in the jailhouse cell facing his new client. “Eric, because you can’t afford an attorney of your own, the court has appointed me to act as your attorney with regard to this criminal charge. You may rest assured that anything you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Eric Biggers was a big man; he outweighed Ben two-to-one. His broad and brawny chest was so large it fairly rippled out of his prison jumpsuit. “Sure, I got ya.”

Ben laid three forms on the table between them. “If you’re agreeable to having me represent you in court, then you need to sign these. That will demonstrate to the court that you have accepted me as your legal representative.” And will also allow me to get paid-no small matter.

“No problem.”

“Now, according to the information provided to me, you’ve been charged with assault and battery with a deadly weapon. Do you know what that means?”

“Sure, sure. I know.”

“And it also says-that the victim was your father.”

Biggers hunched forward, his chin drooping, his eyes sad. “Mr. Kincaid, I want you to know, I really regret what happened.”

Ben found himself warmed by this honest expression of remorse-something he saw all too rarely. “I’m sure you do, Eric.”

“I mean that, truly. I really regret hitting my daddy over the head with that gun.”

Ben nodded. This was good. The man had made a mistake, but wanted to make it better. This was why he was a defense attorney, Ben told himself. So he could help men of this caliber. “Well, Eric, I know sometimes temper gets the best of all of us-”

“I mean, it was a real nice gun. I loved that gun.”

“Uh, what?”

“It was a great little pistol, pearl-handled and everything. But I got blood and hair and guts all over it. Now it ain’t worth a damn.”

Ben drew in his breath, then slowly released it. “Just sign the papers, Eric. I’m late for a wedding.”

Jones pushed back his French cuff to check his wristwatch for roughly the three thousandth time. “Where is he?”

“Relax, he’ll be here,” Loving replied, glancing into a nearby mirror and adjusting his bow tie. “Doesn’t the Skipper always come through?”

Jones paced up and down the length of the small dressing room adjacent to the church sanctuary. “For petty criminals, yes. For his office manager, no.”

Loving spread his arms expansively. He was a big man, with a chest as broad as the Grand Canyon, especially by comparison to Jones’s slight frame. “Now you’re not bein’ fair, Jones. Didn’t Ben make all the arrangements for this weddin’? Didn’t he get it all squared with the church and rent all the mornin’ suits and everythin’?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“The Skipper always takes care of his own.” Loving straightened the lie of his vest. “You know, there’s a certain symmetry here, Jones. He’s takin’ care of your weddin’, jus’ like he took care of my divorce.”

“A charming comparison.” Jones began wringing his hands. “I can’t understand why Ben isn’t here. The best man should be at the church on time. He’s got the ring! We can’t go on without him. You’re a private investigator, Loving. Can’t you go… sleuth around or something?”

“He’ll show up, Jones. Just you wait.”

“Wait until when? The honeymoon? He’s supposed to be here now!”

The door cracked open. Jones rushed forward-but it wasn’t Ben. The white-bearded face of Father Beale appeared through the opening. “It’s almost time. Has he arrived yet?”

“No,” Jones growled, looking even more agitated than before. “He hasn’t.”

Beale frowned. “Keep me posted.”

As soon as the door was closed, Loving jabbed Jones in the stomach. “Was that him? Was he the one?”

“The one that what?”

“You know. The one they say killed that-”

“Ben says he didn’t do it. We won that case, remember?”

“Yeah, but still. Kinda creepy, isn’t it? Bein’ married by a guy who-”

“Would you stop already!” Jones looked as if he were on the verge of a total meltdown. “Where the hell is Ben?”

Loving wrapped a burly arm around Jones’s shoulders. “Don’t fret, little buddy. I’m here. I’ve been through this before, and I know that you’re not really worked up about Ben. You’re worried about gettin’ married, whether you’re goin’ to be happy or whether you’re makin’ the biggest mistake of your life.”

“Oh God, you’re not going to get psychological on me, are you?”

“Paula is a wonderful woman, Jones. You two are a perfect match. You’re gonna be very happy together.” He paused. “And if you’re not, you know where you can get a divorce cheap.”

Jones removed Loving’s hand from his shoulder. “Loving, you’re supposed to be an usher. Go ush.”

At the opposite end of the sanctuary, in a small dressing room barely bigger than a closet, Christina and the bride-to-be, Paula Connelly, were huddled together with two elderly representatives from the ECW, Ruth O’Connell and her friend Ernestine Rupert. One of the women was adjusting the bride’s headdress while the other was messing about with her train.

“There, there,” the woman with the big white bouffant said as she adjusted the headdress a micro-inch. “I think that looks better, don’t you, Ernestine?”

“Ever so much better, Ruth,” replied the one with the blue hair and the expensive jewelry. “I’m having a bit of trouble with this train, though.”

“Here, dear, let me help.” Both women grabbed an end of the white lace train and started tugging herky-jerky.

Paula was staring straight ahead, her eyes wide and fixed. “I will not break down. I will not break down.”