That was, Ben mused as he walked to the jury box, perhaps the most thoughtful, introspective, low-key closing argument he had heard in his life-and probably three times as effective as a fiery impassioned diatribe would’ve been. Canelli, for whatever reason, had chosen to play it smart-which made Ben’s job all the more difficult.

“Let’s make one thing clear up front. I don’t care for this business of recreational spouse swapping any better than you do. Maybe I’m just too old-fashioned, maybe I’m just too scared, I don’t know. But it doesn’t seem right to me and I don’t like it. You probably don’t, either.”

He leaned across the rail separating him from the jurors. “Does that make Father Beale a murderer? No. Does this have anything to do with the murder? No.”

He paused, letting the words steep and percolate in the jurors’ brains. “Oh, I know what the prosecution is saying. They’re trying to twist it into a motive, trying to say it created disharmony with the vestry, that Kate McGuire was upset about it. But the fact is, we already knew there was disharmony in the vestry, and we already knew that Father Beale had a big fight with Kate McGuire in the corridor at the wedding. He told you that himself, up front. What did the protracted testimony about the Liberated Christians group add to our knowledge? Nothing. Not a thing.

“So why did the prosecutor spend so much time on it? Because it’s evidence of criminal intent? Hardly. He wants you to be appalled. He wants you to find Father Beale guilty because he’s a bad man who did an ugly thing. Because the actual evidence of murder is thin and entirely circumstantial. So what the prosecutor can’t accomplish by direct evidence he’s trying to accomplish indirectly by turning you against the defendant. By trotting out every mistake he’s ever made in his entire life so you will want to punish him.

“But that’s not how it works, ladies and gentlemen. If you bring a verdict against my client, it can be for one reason and one reason only-because the prosecution has proved beyond a reasonable doubt that he is guilty of the crime of first-degree murder. And they haven’t done it. They haven’t even come close.”

Ben paused, collecting his thoughts. He knew this trial had gone on long enough; he wasn’t going to add several more hours of him gabbing. He had to make his point, make it well-and sit down.

“So let’s clear away the debris and character assassination and look at the actual evidence that relates to the murder. What is there? Not much, truth be told. Yes, Father Beale was at the church at the time. So were about two hundred other people. Yes, he had a fight with Kate McGuire before the wedding in front of witnesses-but that should be proof that he wasn’t the murderer. Unless you think Father Beale is a total idiot, and I think it’s clear that he isn’t, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill someone-in his own office-minutes after numerous people saw him having a big argument with her.”

Ben continued, rattling through the prosecution evidence. “Only two witnesses attempted to put Father Beale in his office at the time of the murder-a severely nearsighted elderly woman, and a pathetic liar who first offered his testimony to the defense and then, when I wouldn’t use him-because he was obviously lying-offered his services to the prosecution. The kid got his fifteen minutes of fame, but did that make what he said true? Far from it. There’s not even any proof that punk was at the wedding, much less that he saw anything important. His word is worse than worthless.”

Ben thought he was making his points and expressing himself well, but he’d be happier if he got some indication of that from the jury. Instead, all he saw were stony, unresponsive faces. They were listening. But he saw no evidence that they were agreeing.

“I think we can all agree to disregard the testimony of the so-called hair expert. That testimony was so weak I notice the prosecutor didn’t even mention it in his summation. The single piece of physical evidence upon which the prosecutor now hangs his hat is the fingerprints on the St. Crispin’s Award. He thinks it’s very incriminating that Father Beale’s fingerprints were on that thing. But let’s think about that for a moment. It was Father Beale’s award, after all. It was on his desk. He’d had it for over ten years.” Ben’s voice swelled. “Of course his fingerprints were on it!

“I don’t know why the killer’s fingerprints weren’t on it. Frankly, I just haven’t figured out how that was done. But I know that somehow, some way, the killer held that thing in his hands without leaving a mark. I wish I could explain it to you, but the truth is, I don’t have to, because the burden of proof is on the prosecution, not the defense. I don’t have to prove anything. The question before you now is whether the presence of Father Beale’s fingerprints on his own desk ornament proves he’s a murderer. And the answer is-no. Not remotely. And certainly not beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Ben stepped back from the rail and clasped his hands. “I know all of you probably have many unanswered questions, many conundrums to contemplate. But I must remind you, as you go into that deliberation room, that it is not your job, and it would be inappropriate for you to attempt, to debate issues of sexual propriety. This is not a referendum on monogamy, on matters of faith, on whether Father Beale was a good priest, or on whether his personal philosophies are sound. This is only about murder, about whether the prosecution has proved to you that Father Beale is a murderer. He isn’t. But you know what? Even if you disagree with that, even if you kind of sort of suspect he might be-that isn’t good enough. Because you aren’t being asked whether you think the man is guilty. You’re being asked whether the prosecution has proved that he is guilty-beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s the only question before you.”

He stopped and slowly looked at each of the jurors in turn. “And the only possible answer to that question is no.”

The Gospel According to Daniel

We are told, by those who read the Book of Revelations as a series of apocalyptic prophesies, that at the end of days we will each of us face judgment.

Mine came early.

It is an extraordinary experience. Of course, we all know that we are judged on a daily basis. The opinions of others-friends, family, and acquaintances-are constantly shaped and reshaped. We find ourselves on a sliding scale of public opinion, one that too often fluctuates based upon what we did last, what we said, what we wrote. It is a reality of life that any of us who works in the public eye must face. We are quite simply judged all the time.

But not like this. And not with such grave consequences. How many times in one’s life does one realize with cold and stark immediacy that the next few moments will determine the rest of your life-or even curtail that life? Not often. And thank God for that, because the stress of the moment, the grave weight on the human heart, cannot be borne for long. It is not possible to describe accurately what it’s like, waiting for the jury to return and seal your fate. The incipient panic that results from the realization that your life could be significantly foreshortened.

It was, to be certain, not pleasant, seeing all my secrets exposed, reading about them in the newspaper, hearing about them on television, knowing that the opinions of others regarding me would be forever altered. Even with secrets that should not have been secrets, even with bits of shame that should not have been shameful, with positions and decisions I could ably defend, I found this to be a demeaning and ultimately terrifying process. It caused me to reexamine everything, to rethink, to reconsider. To face up to the stark reality that in some respects-I may well have been wrong.