And when all is said and done, that is the most painful experience of all-to be judged according to the coarse scrutiny of your own soul. And found wanting.

Ben and Christina and Father Beale sat at a table in the small waiting area near the courtroom as they had done more or less continuously since the judge instructed the jury and sent them away to deliberate. They’d had some Vietnamese takeout from Ri Le’s and some strongly flavored dessert coffee. But no one’s spirits were lifted. They sat in silence only occasionally broken by abortive attempts at small talk that never went anywhere.

“I’m going to get some regular coffee,” Ben said, excusing himself. He thought he would have to go downstairs and see Charlie at the snack bar. To his surprise, he found something waiting for him right outside the door.

“Regular or decaf?” Judy said, holding a thermos in each hand.

“Judy? What in the world-?”

“We also have one filled with chocolate milk. Show him, Maura.” Behind her, Maura held up a silver thermos, giggling. “I know it’s your secret favorite.”

“Not at times like this.” He took the regular and grunted his thanks. “What are you two girls doing here?”

“You didn’t think we were going to leave before we knew the verdict, did you?”

“It could be days before the jury returns.”

“I don’t think so.”

Ben raised his eyebrows. “Is that based on your years of trial experience?”

“No. It’s based on my years of watching Court TV. Long deliberations occur when the jury is confused, when the lawyers haven’t done a good job of identifying the key issues. You, of course, did a brilliant job. Your closing gave me chill bumps.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Mind you, I’m not saying you’re going to win. But I do think the jury understands the issues. They’ll resolve it one way or the other. Soon.”

Words of wisdom from the fifteen-year-old jury consultant. But young as she was, she was probably right.

“Thanks for the coffee. Now go home. I’ll have someone call you if the jury returns.” He reentered the conference room and poured the coffee. No one took much.

“How long has it been?” Christina asked.

Ben checked his watch. “Too long.”

“How much longer will it take?” Father Beale asked.

“The judge will make them deliberate until ten, at least,” Ben explained. “If he can possibly get it resolved today, he’ll try to do it. If not, he’ll dismiss them and they’ll start up again tomorrow morning.”

“And if they don’t finish today, how long could it go?”

“There’s no set limit. But given how many days the trial took, Judge Pitcock will not accept a hung jury readily. It could go on for weeks. Even months.”

“Months?” Beale squeezed his temples. “Months.”

“But that probably won’t happen,” Christina added hastily. “Most juries finish up the first day.”

“And what does that mean? If they finish quickly.”

“Some trial lawyers say it means a guilty verdict, but I’ve heard others argue exactly the opposite. The truth is-no one knows. Juries are, ultimately, unknowable and unpredictable.”

“Days. Weeks. Months.” Beale shook his head with despair. “I can’t handle this. At least not alone.” He pushed himself out of his chair. “If you two will excuse me, I’d like to find a quiet place where I can pray.”

Ben’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to… pray?”

“You think that’s an unusual thing for a priest to do?”

“Well, no, but-”

“But now that you know I have a sex life, you’ve decided that I’m not really religious.”

“I didn’t mean that-”

“Uh-huh.” Beale walked to the door, then stopped. “I’m a servant of God, Ben. I always have been. That’s not self-aggrandizement-that’s just a statement of fact. My faith is what sustains me. And right now-I need all the sustenance I can get.”

Thoroughly ashamed of himself, Ben watched Father Beale leave the room. He knew what kind of person Father Beale was as well as anyone, better than most. He had known since he was twelve years old. How could he possibly forget?

When Ben saw what he had done to the stained glass window, all those years ago, he knew he was doomed. Conner and Landon and the others had predictably vanished. But his father hadn’t. He could see Edward Kincaid making his way to the scene of the crime, not running, but walking with determination and alacrity, as he always did when he had something on his mind. His father had never needed much of an excuse to disapprove of Ben, or to express his disapproval in stringent and immediate terms. The fact that this was an accident would cut no weight with him. You must learn to act responsibly, he would say. And if you can’t learn it on your own, then I will teach it to you. It had happened before. And the memories were all too sharp, too recent, and too painful.

But Ben had never done anything like this before. He’d never done anything so horrible. He knew his father would view this as a public humiliation. And his father did not like to be publicly humiliated.

Ben’s father was a big man, a sharp contrast to Ben’s slight physique. He had always been able to intimidate Ben, but today he seemed to tower over him.

“Did you do this?” his father asked, in short, clipped tones.

In a split second, Ben considered all his options. He couldn’t blame anyone else, and he certainly couldn’t deny that it had happened. Trying to explain about Valerie Beth and Conner and the robing room would only make it worse.

To Ben’s embarrassment, his voice squeaked as he spoke. “Yes, sir.”

“You irresponsible little-” His father’s fists balled up. “Haven’t I told you to act more maturely? Haven’t I told you to be wise?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your mother coddles you, of course. I’ve tried to talk to her, but she never listens.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve always had every little thing you wanted. Always.”

Baloney-but this was not the time to disagree. “Yes, sir.”

“She lets you live in a dream world, with your books and reading all the time. You have no idea what it’s like to be out in the real world, how hard it is to get by. And then you turn around and do something like this-destroying a treasure others have worked so hard for.”

“I know, Father, and I’m really sorry-”

“Sorry is for losers, Ben.” He grabbed his son roughly by the collar. “We’re leaving.” His dark expression left Ben no doubt about what would happen when they arrived home.

His father spun around so fast he almost collided with Father Beale, who was standing just behind them.

Father Beale smiled. “Is there a problem, Edward?”

“I’m afraid so, Father. My nitwit son has broken your stained glass window.”

“Yes, I know. I asked him to do it.”

Ben’s lips parted. What-?

Edward Kincaid’s eyes widened. “You asked him to do it?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, there was a flaw in the bottom half of the glass. Has to be replaced. We had to knock out that whole section so it could be repaired.”

A line creased Ben’s father’s forehead. “Couldn’t workmen do that?”

“Of course they could. But they would charge for it, wouldn’t they? And I think this little indulgence of mine has cost the church quite enough already.”

“But why Ben-?”

“Because I couldn’t bear to do it myself. Weak, I know. But there you have it. I couldn’t, so I asked Ben to help. Which he did. He’s a fine boy, you know, Edward. You should be very proud of him.”

Ben stared at the priest wordlessly. He didn’t know what to say-and thought it best he not try to say anything at all.

His father cleared his throat. “Yes. Well… I didn’t know… I didn’t realize…” His fists slowly unclenched. He released Ben’s collar. The blood began to drain out of his face. “That’s different, of course.”

“How is the work on the parish profile coming, Edward?”