Canelli gave the jury one more long look, shook his head sadly, then closed his notebook. “No more questions, your honor.”

After a much needed recess, Christina spent the better part of an hour redirecting, trying to salvage some semblance of Father Beale’s credibility. She took him back through all the incidents Canelli had raised on cross, eliciting his side of the story. Most important, she took him back to the scene of the crime itself, step by step, establishing where he was and why he wasn’t in the office at the time of the murder. It went well-better than Ben expected. But how much difference would it make with the jury? What they had witnessed would weigh heavily on each and every one of them. What they had seen in the courtroom today they couldn’t possibly forget.

“Is she dead?”

“Oh, yes,” Manly said. “She’s dead. Well and truly.”

“You’re certain.”

“Absolutely. Not a doubt about it.” He was feeling a mix of emotions so complex he had difficulty expressing them even to himself. He knew that he had struck a great blow for the cause. But at the same time… something else was buzzing through his brain. Or perhaps it was his heart. Something… less certain.

But that was nonsense. He’d done what he’d meant to do, and he was proud of it. He wasn’t going to let any weak-kneed sentiment bring him down. He was a Crusader, after all. He’d done the right thing. He knew he had.

“I said, are you certain?”

“Absolutely. Dead as a doornail. Limp as a mackerel. Pick your cliché. She’s gone.”

“Good.”

“You seem happy about it.”

“I’m happy to see… to see our plan brought to fruition.”

Something about his friend’s answer didn’t strike Manly right. “There wasn’t something more, was there? You were somewhat adamant that she be the one.”

“She was the perfect choice. We discussed it over and over.”

“I know. I just wondered if maybe there was something more.”

“Well, there wasn’t. So stop being stupid. We have to remain focused. And we have to do something with the body.”

What was it about that answer that didn’t seem quite convincing? Manly wondered. He shouldn’t be suspicious. It was just guilt creeping up on him. It was stupid. He wouldn’t descend to that level.

And yet…

“So, are you going to help or not?”

Manly snapped out of it. “Yeah, yeah. I’m helping.” He hesitated. “Look… don’t call me stupid. I don’t like it.”

“Sorry. It just slipped out. It won’t happen again. You know I have nothing but the highest regard for you. You’re a hero in my book.”

Yeah, I think I probably am, Manly thought, as he positioned himself around the corpse. But maybe not for the reason I thought.

He gazed one last time at the old woman’s remains. She did look tranquil now; more than she ever had when she was living. Maybe there was a peace in the afterlife, even for babykillers and those who support them. Who knew? He took the top half, and his friend took the bottom, and together, they lifted the lifeless body of Ernestine Rupert, founder of Tulsa’s top pro-choice group, late of the vestry of St. Benedict’s church, into the truck.

“Mr. Prosecutor,” Judge Pitcock asked, “would you like to make a closing statement?”

Canelli nodded and approached the jury. “I’ve been in the DA’s office for fourteen years now. Most of them good ones. I’ve won a lot of cases, and I’ve lost some, too. But I can tell you this, and I mean it sincerely-this has been the hardest case I’ve had to try in my entire career. I don’t imagine there will ever be a tougher one.”

Ben’s eyebrows rose. This was an unusual opening, especially coming from Canelli. Unusually soft, and unusually honest.

“It isn’t because I have the slightest doubt about Daniel Beale’s guilt. I don’t. The evidence against him is overwhelming, irrefutable. But that hasn’t made my job easier. Because at heart, I’m still a good Catholic boy from the Sunday school classes of St. Thomas More’s of Broken Arrow, and prosecuting a man of the cloth has not been a pleasure. And I’ve had to do more than that. I’ve had to expose him as a man who could not control his temper, and worse, could not control his sexual appetites. I’ve had to reveal that a man who acted as a counselor to many was in fact a sexual deviant, engaging in numerous liaisons with the women who trusted him. I’ve had to reveal that he had inappropriate relationships with married women and even small children. And that, you can take my word for it, has been no pleasure.”

A snazzy way of reminding the jury of all the most salacious moments of the trial without seeming salacious as he did it, Ben thought. And yet, he had to admit, there was something undeniably genuine, something truly regretful, about Canelli’s tone and manner.

“I kept telling myself, perhaps I was simply being inflexible. Perhaps I was too resistant to new ideas, to anything that deviated from what I grew up believing. Perhaps I had become so locked into the role of the prosecutor that I saw evil everywhere-even where it didn’t exist.”

Christina shot Ben a pointed look. What was this, closing argument or Canelli’s private soul search? And yet, as he looked into the eyes of the jurors, he saw that they were hanging on every word. Some of them were even nodding in agreement. Whatever it was Canelli was doing, it seemed to be effective.

“I don’t know,” Canelli continued. “I don’t know all the answers. I don’t pretend to. Let’s face it-the courtroom is no place for questions of faith. We are simply ill-equipped to handle such profound and mysterious matters. But here’s the one thing I do know-Father Daniel Beale killed Kate McGuire. You don’t need faith to recognize that truth. You don’t need to approve or disapprove of his politics or his sexual practices. All you need to do is look at the unequivocal evidence.

“Daniel Beale had a long history of violent, uncontrolled temper, something you unfortunately witnessed right here in this courtroom. He was seen by numerous witnesses in a protracted argument with the victim minutes before she was killed. He threatened her. He arranged a rendezvous with her. She kept the meeting, and an eyewitness saw him keep it-placing him at the scene of the murder at the time of the murder. He was seen shortly thereafter with blood on his hands and clothes-worse, he was seen trying to wash it off, trying to remove the evidence of his crime before the police arrived. And his fingerprints were on the weapon found in his office-his and no one else’s.

“In prosecution circles, this is what’s called a perfect case-we’ve established motive and opportunity, and there is both physical and eyewitness testimony pointing unequivocally to the defendant. There is simply no doubt about this one-he’s guilty. Of murder in the first degree.”

The handsome DA moved slowly from one end of the jury box to the other. He paused, peering reflectively at the jurors. “When this case is over, I suspect you will not soon forget it. I suspect that you, like me, will have many questions that you will ponder for days, perhaps even longer. Questions about politics, sex, the proper role of a minister. Even questions of faith. But you mustn’t let those blind you to the core truth of this trial. This is a murder trial, and the only question you are being asked to resolve is: Who killed Kate McGuire? You may have reservations about everything else, but about that there is no doubt. Daniel Beale committed the murder. No one else could have. He committed a crime against Kate McGuire, her family, the state-and against God. And as unpleasant as the duty may be, you have an obligation to punish him for that crime, in the manner prescribed by the laws of this state. It is the job you accepted when you took your seat in that box. And now I call upon you to do it.”