She wheels around to face the judge, her eyes on fire now. “Do you see what’s going on here?”

He does. We all do. Holliston has already testified. He told the jurors his story without taking the stand—without submitting to an oath, without facing cross-examination, and without risking the admission of his prior attack on the Butcher. Harry was right. Crazy like a fox.

Judge Gould nods at Geraldine, leans on the top of his chair, and tosses his glasses on the desk. “Mr. Holliston,” he says, “how many times do you intend to change your mind on this issue during the course of trial?”

Holliston takes a few moments to mull it over. “Prob’ly not again,” he says, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “Like I said”—he looks over at Harry and sneers—“the rest of this shouldn’t be that hard, so I think he’ll be okay from here.”

Harry laughs at the backhanded endorsement.

“But I’ll level with you,” Holliston continues. He leans toward the judge, ready to share a long-held confidence with a trusted colleague. “I’d just as soon get a new lawyer. I ain’t seen much spark out of this one so far.”

Judge Gould shakes his head before the complaint is complete. “Not going to happen, Mr. Holliston. Mr. Madigan is your court-appointed defender. He’ll provide you with as thorough a defense to these allegations as any attorney in the county could deliver—if you let him.”

Holliston sits up straighter and slaps his knees, his grin suggesting the judge just delivered one hell of a punch line. “That’s good,” he says. “That’s real good.” Both guards move closer to his chair.

The judge ignores him, looks at Harry instead. “You’re ready, Mr. Madigan?”

Harry nods.

Judge Gould sighs and looks around the room at all of us as he retrieves his glasses and heads for the door. “All right, then,” he says. “Let’s get on with it.”

Holliston jumps up, nodding; he thinks that’s a swell idea.

The judge exits chambers first and Big Red calls the courtroom to its collective feet. Holliston and his escorts follow, Geraldine and Clarence close behind. Geraldine pauses before the doorway, though, and directs Clarence out first. She turns back to Harry, frowning, and shakes her blond head. “I hope I don’t live long enough to have to say these words again,” she tells him, “but I’m damn glad you’re back on board.”

Chapter 16

Calvin Ramsey is all business; he always is. His direct testimony went by the book. Ivy League educational background, stellar employment history, and impressive professional affiliations filled the first twenty minutes or so. Details of his current responsibilities as Barnstable County’s Medical Examiner took the next fifteen. Testimony specific to this case filled a solid hour.

The doctor’s direct included the introduction of five black-and-white photographs, all taken during the autopsy he performed almost a year ago, on the day after Christmas. Each shows a puncture wound, or a combination of puncture wounds, on Francis Patrick McMahon’s body. Most of the jurors looked disturbed as the graphic images circulated among them. Robert Eastman glanced over at Alex Doane and shook his head sadly. Maria Marzetti pressed a fist to her mouth. Cora Rowlands shuddered.

Under Geraldine’s careful questioning, Dr. Ramsey tied Derrick Holliston to the dead man in no uncertain terms. Prints, hair follicles—even fibers from Holliston’s jacket and jeans—all combine to leave little doubt as to who paid an unexpected visit to St. Veronica’s sacristy last Christmas Eve. An airtight ID, unless our client suddenly decides to claim he has an identical twin in the neighborhood who shares his wardrobe. Technically, of course, the identification evidence wasn’t necessary. Holliston’s self-defense claim admits as much. Still, our District Attorney isn’t taking any chances; she intends to prove every element of the crime, contested or not.

The Medical Examiner’s direct ended with the crux of the matter: the deceased sustained eight puncture wounds in all. Five would have been non-life-threatening, had they been treated in time. The abdominal wounds—even if medically attended promptly—may or may not have proved fatal. It remains an open question. The aortal puncture, of course, is anything but. It cinched the priest’s fate instantly. “That one,” Calvin Ramsey said, pointing to the top photograph in the stack on the jury box railing in response to Geraldine’s final question. “The entry wound is tiny,” he told the attentive jurors, “as they all are, but that one was fatal. Father McMahon expired within minutes of this puncture being inflicted.”

The fourteen faces in the box are somber. More than a few look a little bit sick. And now it’s Harry’s turn, whether he likes it or not. He scoops all five photographs from the jury box railing and returns them to Geraldine’s table, facedown, before he speaks. “Dr. Ramsey,” he says as he walks toward the witness box, “you’re aware, are you not, sir, that Mr. Holliston has entered a self-defense claim?”

“I am.”

“So you’re aware he admits stabbing the deceased?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you went to great lengths here today to prove it.”

Dr. Ramsey actually smiles at Harry. “I answer the questions, Mr. Madigan. I don’t choose them.”

Touché.

Harry’s not surprised by the doctor’s response; he knew it was coming. But he’s got precious little to work with in this case. He needs to raise every issue he can—even the ones that bite back—so he’ll have at least some material he can weave into a credible closing argument. He turns and stares at Geraldine Schilling, the person who does choose the questions, and waits until the jurors do too. “Were any of the deceased’s wounds inflicted from behind?” he says at last.

The witness tilts his head to one side. “From behind? No, certainly not.” He gestures toward Geraldine’s table, toward the upside-down photographs, suggesting maybe Harry hasn’t seen them yet. “The puncture wounds are all on the front of the body,” he says.

Harry nods repeatedly, as if this fact is particularly meaningful. It’s not, but he’ll make something of it; he has to. “Mr. Holliston and the deceased were face-to-face, then,” he says, “when the altercation occurred. Is that correct, Doctor?”

Geraldine stirs but she doesn’t object. Harry’s on the brink of impropriety, teetering on the edge of it, but he hasn’t quite crossed the line.

“I would assume so,” the witness answers. He seems hesitant, though. He loosens his tie, looking uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the word altercation.

Geraldine half stands, ready for battle, in case Harry plans to take this line of questioning any further. Even she knows she shouldn’t bother, though. She’s tried enough cases against Harry Madigan to know he won’t. He’s gotten as much as he can get from this witness; trying to squeeze out more would be stupid. At best, it would get us nowhere. At worst, it would alienate the jury. It’s too easy for a lawyer to look like a shark when the witness being crossed is as professional, as straightforward, as this one.

Harry walks back toward our table, his eyes on the floor. He’s running through a mental checklist, no doubt, making sure he hasn’t overlooked any detail before he dismisses the Medical Examiner. He hasn’t. At this point, he has enough to argue in closing that the Commonwealth’s theory of the case doesn’t make any sense, that our client would have attacked from behind had he planned a robbery/murder, that a face-to-face confrontation is far more consistent with Holliston’s version of events. He turns back to face the witness when he reaches our table. “Thank you, Dr. Ramsey,” he says. “Nothing further.”