Harry pulls each of our copies forward on the table as the Chief explains it, making a neat stack near the edge. He and I have examined all of these photographs many times, but we study each one again as the Chief testifies, then scan the members of the panel for their reactions. Holliston folds his arms and turns away from us, toward the side door, looking like he doesn’t want to stick around for much more of this.

The last shot, number six, is different from the others. It’s a photograph of an empty wicker basket, sitting on the sacristy’s tidy counter. The jurors’ relief is palpable as they pass it around. They’ve all seen enough gore for one day. Cora Rowlands has seen enough for a lifetime.

“And finally,” Geraldine says to the Chief, “would you explain to the jurors the significance of this shot.”

He nods and takes another sip of water. “We went back for that one,” he says, “after we interviewed the pastor.”

“Why was that?” Geraldine says. The question isn’t necessary, though. The Chief’s a seasoned witness; he doesn’t need the minor prompts.

“The pastor was the first person on the scene,” he says. “Monsignor Davis found the body. After he called us, he noticed the basket. He told us it shouldn’t have been empty; it should have held the Christmas Vigil collection.”

Holliston leans uncomfortably close to me. “Ain’t you supposed to jump up right about now?” he says. “You ever hearda hearsay?”

He’s getting in touch with his inner lawyer again. I shake my head at him, wishing he’d shut up and let me do my job.

“You even watch TV?” he says. “Christ, anybody who watches TV knows hearsay ain’t allowed.”

“Be quiet,” I tell him. “Now.”

He’s wrong. Hearsay is only hearsay if the person being quoted is unavailable to testify, unavailable to be cross-examined. St. Veronica’s pastor, Monsignor Dominic Davis, isn’t; he’s sitting in the hallway. He’s Geraldine’s next witness and, like all witnesses in serious cases, he’s sequestered—excluded from the courtroom—until he testifies. I’ve neither the time nor the interest to explain any of this to Holliston, though. Besides, he’s busy contorting his face and sighing over my gross incompetence.

“So the collection money was stolen?” Geraldine continues.

“Well, it was missing.” Tommy Fitzpatrick is a careful witness; he avoids assumptions at all costs.

“Has it ever been recovered?” she asks.

“Not yet,” he says. “So far we haven’t found anything that was taken that night.”

Something about that answer bothers me. I’m on my feet before my brain knows why. “Hold it,” I say.

“Hold it?” Judge Gould echoes, and I can’t blame him. That’s not my usual mode of objecting—or anyone else’s, for that matter.

My pulse is racing, but my mind is way ahead now. “Move to voir dire the witness, Your Honor.”

“What?” Geraldine pivots to face me, plants her hands on her hips. “My Sister Counsel can’t voir dire this witness. She can wait her turn, ask whatever burning questions she has on cross.”

“These questions need to be asked now,” I say, “while we’re discussing these photographs.” I’m in front of the bench, speaking directly to the judge.

“Ms. Nickerson,” he says, his eyebrows knitting, “this is highly unusual.”

A flurry of activity makes me turn. Geraldine is back at her table, exchanging hurried whispers with Clarence, rummaging through her file, confirming my hunch. Harry sees it too; it’s plain on his face.

“I know it’s unusual, Judge.” I turn back to face him but he’s not looking at me. He’s watching the pair of panicked prosecutors instead. A quick scan of the room tells me everyone else is too.

“Your Honor,” Geraldine says, “it seems my office may be guilty of a minor oversight. Perhaps we should take a short recess so we can rectify the matter.”

“No recess,” I say.

Judge Gould’s eyes widen. Again, I can’t blame him.

“Move to voir dire the witness,” I repeat. “The motion’s pending.”

The judge is quiet for a moment, his eyes moving from me back to Geraldine. “I’ll allow it,” he says at last.

I pounce before the District Attorney can argue further. “ ‘So far we haven’t found anything that was taken that night.’ That was your answer to the prior question, was it not, Chief?”

He looks surprised, but not worried. Tommy Fitzpatrick is a straight shooter. He doesn’t know what the hell’s going on here—I’m not entirely sure I do, either—but he’ll answer the questions put to him. And he’ll answer them honestly, no matter who is asking. “Yes,” he says. “That was my answer.”

“Tell us specifically, Chief, what it is you haven’t found.”

He shrugs. “Like I said, we haven’t found anything. Everything that was taken from the church that night is still missing.”

“We’re not just talking about money, are we?”

He looks over at Geraldine and a glimmer of understanding comes to his eyes. I don’t have to turn around to know she looks sick. “No,” he says. “We’re not.”

“What else was taken from St. Veronica’s Chapel that night, Chief?”

He takes his glasses from an inside pocket and puts them on, then opens his written report and skims through it. “A monstrance,” he says, tapping the page. “I have a devil of a time remembering that word.”

“Tell the jurors what a monstrance is, will you, Chief?” He’ll be broadening my vocabulary as well, but I try not to let on.

“I had to ask the pastor the same question,” he says, as if reading my mind. “And I was raised Catholic.”

A few of the jurors chuckle.

“It’s a solid-gold stand,” he says, “used to hold the host when it’s exposed on the altar for any length of time. The host is inserted into a small window at the top, so it can be viewed by the visiting faithful, but not touched. Until fairly recently, only an ordained priest was permitted to touch the host.”

“Is the monstrance valuable?” I ask.

He shrugs again. “It’s gold,” he says. “The thief would find a taker if he melted it down, I suppose.”

“And you’re certain it was taken from the chapel the night Francis McMahon was killed?”

“The pastor is,” the Chief says. “Monsignor Davis said the monstrance was to be on display from the end of the Vigil Mass until midnight, the chapel unlocked so parishioners could enjoy private visitation.”

I turn to the defense table, where our client has both arms flung outward, his eyes raised to the heavens. He’s apparently disgusted once again with my failure to invoke the TV version of the hearsay rule. He has no idea what a lucky break he’s about to get. It should happen to a nicer guy.

I check in with Harry and he gives me the go-ahead nod; we’re on the same page. I wait, though, until the room falls silent. I want to say it quietly, calmly. “We move for a mistrial, Your Honor, on the grounds of prosecutorial misconduct.”

The place erupts.

Reporters head for the double doors, many of them running backward so as not to miss anything on the way out. Judge Gould bangs his gavel repeatedly, then signals Big Red to get the jurors the hell out of here. He jumps up and descends from the bench as they file through the side door, his steps heavy, his robe billowing as he strides. “Counsel,” he says, heading for chambers, “inside. Now.”

Our client gets to his feet at once and Judge Gould wheels around to face him. “I called for counsel, Mr. Holliston,” the judge says. He’s winded, obviously exasperated. “Believe it or not, sir, that does not include you.”

The defendant drops back into his chair, shaking his head. His expression says he’s certain this situation is far beyond anything Harry and I can handle.

We follow the judge into chambers, Geraldine and Clarence behind us. Geraldine’s on the defensive even before her sidekick shuts the door. “It was an oversight,” she says, “nothing more than that.”

Harry actually laughs. “I hope our District Attorney won’t take offense,” he says to the judge, “but we see it differently.”