The Gospel According to Daniel

I suppose, upon reflection, what happened at this stage of the proceedings could be viewed as a classic example of an age-old philosophical problem. Certainly since the earliest stages of introspective thought, the subject of self-examination, of scrutinizing one’s own soul, has been discussed and debated. Know thyself, Socrates said. That is the first step toward knowledge. But most readers have missed the point of the statement. Socrates was not saying that self-knowledge was the first step toward genius. Socrates’ point was that no one ever really knows themselves, and thus, all attempts at higher knowledge are inherently flawed by the faulty foundation upon which the search is based.

At this point in the trial, I realized how right Socrates was. I had considered these issues a million or more times. I had weighed and examined; I had debated time and again-with myself. But there comes a time when one has to move beyond that, when one must take the next step. Expose your analysis to peer review, the academics would say. Or as the more tough-minded souls in my youth group might phrase it-face up to your own bullshit.

The irony of the situation was not lost on me, even as it was happening, even as our defense was crumbling right before my eyes. Hours and hours we had spent bracing ourselves for the worst, but when the worst came, it was from a quarter no one expected. We had worked to confront the enemies; we were prepared to meet the attacks of the prosecution. We were ready to counter and thrust, to expose and embarrass, to do whatever was necessary to defeat these opponents. But when the killing stroke was finally delivered, it came from an enemy for whom none of us were prepared-not Ben, not Christina, and not me. When the end finally came, I had no one to blame.

Because the enemy who finally destroyed me was myself.

“Wife-swapping?” Canelli said, repeating an attention-grabbing word Ben had never expected to hear in this murder trial-or any other, for that matter. Funny how these things sometimes took directions that were totally unexpected, that for all your preparation you couldn’t possibly anticipate. Except that it wasn’t funny. Not at all.

“That was what it amounted to,” Carol Mason replied. She was a thin woman, but she seemed even thinner on the stand, flimsy and vulnerable, without visible means of support. Ben had admired her beauty before, but all that seemed flattened out now, submerged by the misery that overwhelmed her. “They don’t use that terminology. They prefer to call themselves lifestyle couples. But it’s the same thing.”

“And how many people in the church were involved in this?”

“The count varied. But almost everyone in the thirty-to-fifty age range tried it at one time or another. And the few who didn’t knew about it. We were pretty good about containment; the knowledge stayed within the church. New members had to be with the church for at least a year before they were invited to… participate.”

“Why were so many people involved?”

“Because our priest wanted us to be. He was the mastermind.”

Canelli stepped back from the podium, a shocked expression on his face. Ben couldn’t tell how much was show. Had he anticipated the way this juicy tidbit might slip out during Ernestine’s cross? If he had tried to broach this subject on direct, their family values-minded judge would’ve shut him down. It had to come in through the back door. Was that why Canelli saved Ernestine and Carol for the end?

Ben supposed he would never be certain. And what did it matter? Planned or not, the testimony was devastating. Ben had fought and argued, hauled out precedent after precedent, but the judge didn’t rule in his favor, as indeed Ben knew he couldn’t. Ben had opened the door to this testimony during the cross of Ernestine Rupert. Anything the prosecution did with it now was fair game. It related not only to credibility and character and truthfulness-but to the very issue of motive itself. It was coming in.

“How did it start?” Canelli finally asked.

“It may seem bizarre-and I suppose it was-but Father Beale introduced this… concept soon after he came to St. Benedict’s, no differently than he would any other Christian education program.”

Canelli blinked. “Christian education?”

Carol nodded. “That’s how he saw it. Liberated Christians, that’s what he called us. He had this whole spiel. I couldn’t repeat it all, but the basic idea was that sex was separate from morals, that sex could be recreational without impugning any moral truths, that people had misinterpreted the Bible to lock sex up in a closet where it was never supposed to be. Jesus was not a prude, that’s what he kept saying. It was like a slogan for him-a higher truth.”

Ben felt the eyes in the courtroom burning across counsel table, scrutinizing Father Beale. A priest on trial for his beliefs was a potentially sympathetic situation. But a blasphemer and sex fiend was something else altogether.

“And so people joined this… Liberated Christians group?”

“Oh, yes. At first just a few. But then word got around and more joined. And then more and more. Husbands would bring their wives, wives would force their husbands.”

“And you also joined?”

“Yes.” Carol’s hand rose to her face; she bit down on her knuckle. “I didn’t want to. It was my husband, Bobby. He was keen to give it a try. I guess he’s… more adventurous than I am. ‘What can it hurt?’ he kept saying. ‘Everyone’s doing it. Let’s just give it a go and see if we like it.’ ”

“So you consented.”

“He kept pushing and pushing and he wouldn’t stop. After a while, I couldn’t say no anymore. But I still wasn’t… ready. Especially for what went on at those meetings. Bobby would encourage me to dress differently, like some of the other women did. ‘Come on, show off your tits and ass.’ That’s what he’d say. And I did it. God knows, I did it. I felt so debased. So humiliated.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“No.” The knuckle, braced against her mouth, began to tremble. “I didn’t like it at all. I thought it was evil. Sinful and evil. It disgusted me. And I wasn’t the only one, either. I knew other women who felt the same way. They went along with it, but they suffered afterward. They were led to evil, tempted by the man who came to us as our spiritual leader.”

“Objection,” Ben said quietly. No reason to make a bigger fuss than necessary; the jury’s sympathies had to be with this obviously distraught woman. “The witness is characterizing, not testifying.”

Judge Pitcock nodded. “Mrs. Mason, please restrict yourself to recounting what you’ve actually seen or heard.”

“Yes, your honor.”

Canelli jumped in to guide her back on course. “Mrs. Mason, could you please describe… what took place at these meetings?”

Carol closed her eyes for a long moment, as if gathering her strength. Then, slowly and deliberately, she began. “They weren’t all the same. We had several different types of meetings. At the church meetings, on Wednesday nights, we just talked, believe it or not. Father Beale would lead us in a discussion of the supposed philosophical and even Biblical underpinnings of what we were doing. His theory was that recreational sex was a healthy thing and when practiced by couples-here’s the bizarre part-that it would actually strengthen our marriages. In his twisted mind, this was marriage counseling.” She paused. “Other times, we would meet at someone’s house or, twice a year, we’d have a retreat, usually at a somewhat secluded motel in another state.”

“And why did you need privacy?”

Her voice dropped off. “I would think that was obvious.”

“What did you do on these retreats?”

Carol seemed tired, without energy, like a rag doll with her stuffings ripped out. “Imagine the worst. Mix a nudist camp with an orgy scene from some Roman gladiator movie, and you’ve just about got it.”