Chapter 21

Friday, December 17

Monsignor Dominic Davis is in full Roman Catholic regalia—Geraldine’s brainchild, no doubt. I’m not a member of the flock, but I’ve met enough priests in my day to know they don’t always sport ankle-length robes and pastel accessories. The Monsignor’s skullcap and waistband are a pinkish purple, and a matching sash on his right side flows to the hem of his black linen cassock. I catch Geraldine’s eye and frown over the finery. A black suit with a simple Roman collar would have done the job.

Geraldine ignores me. She stands beside Monsignor Davis and beams at him as he raises his right hand, places his left on the Holy Bible, and takes the oath. “Your Eminence,” she says as he sits, “please state your full name and occupation for the record.”

Harry turns to me, his hazel eyes as wide as they get, as the priest introduces himself to the jurors. “Your what?” he whispers.

“Don’t look at me,” I tell him. “I’m among the unsaved.”

“And how long have you served as the pastor at St. Veronica’s Parish?” Geraldine asks.

“Eight years,” the witness says. “I was stationed in New Bedford before that, at the Church of St. Peter the Apostle.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence.” Geraldine glows again, as if her witness just provided us all with vital information. “Now, in the course of your service at St. Veronica’s, did you come to know the Reverend Francis Patrick McMahon?”

“I did,” he answers.

“Tell us about your getting to know each other, if you will, Your Eminence.”

Harry turns to me and rolls his eyes farther back in his head than I’d have thought possible. I can’t blame him; Geraldine’s laying it on pretty thick. “I’m going to object like hell,” he says, “as soon as she kisses his ring.”

“Frank—Father McMahon—was already stationed at St. Veronica’s when I was named pastor,” Monsignor Davis says. “He’d been there five years at that point, stayed on another seven, until his death a year ago.” The Monsignor shifts in the witness box and looks toward our table for the first time, his gaze settling on Derrick Holliston. The priest’s dark brown eyes are heavily lashed and unusually wide. They convey not a shred of reproach, but Holliston twists in his chair and stares at the side wall anyway.

“How many priests serve St. Veronica’s Parish?” Geraldine asks.

“Two,” he says. “We have plenty of visiting priests who help out during the summer months, when our Sunday Mass schedule triples, but only two of us are stationed there year-round.”

“So am I correct in presuming, Your Eminence, that you and Father McMahon got to know each other fairly well during the seven years you served together?”

“We did,” he says, turning his attention back to the jury. “Frank and I came to be great friends.”

“Tell us about him,” she says.

Harry’s on his feet, headed for the bench. “Your Honor,” he says, “I hate to interrupt my Sister Counsel.”

His Sister Counsel knows better; there are few sports Harry enjoys more. She pivots and scowls at him.

“But I have to ask the court to set some parameters here,” he says.

Judge Gould nods. Every lawyer in the room knows Harry’s right—even Geraldine. Technically, this witness shouldn’t be on the stand more than five minutes; he has precious little to say that’s relevant. Since we’ve put the self-defense claim into play, he’s entitled to opine that Father McMahon wasn’t a violent man, that he had no propensity toward assault, sexual or otherwise. Beyond that, the dead priest’s character is of no import. Murder is murder, whether the deceased was a nice guy or not.

Geraldine isn’t happy with Harry’s request, though, and she doesn’t give a damn that he’s right. Technical considerations notwithstanding, she’d like to keep the priest in the witness box all day. If the jurors like him, if they conclude he’s a decent, moral man, they’re likely to presume the same of his late colleague.

“Counselor,” the judge says to her, “narrow your question, please.”

She will, but not before she throws her hands in the air and shakes her blond head at the jurors. She’s hamstrung, she’s telling them. These two less-than-reasonable men are preventing her from telling the story as it should be told.

Harry backs up to our table, watching her performance, and remains standing in front of his chair. No point in sitting down again until he hears the new question.

Geraldine turns and smiles at him. “Where is Father McMahon buried?” she asks, still looking at Harry. He drops into his seat and sighs. The question is narrow, after all. It’s also irrelevant, but an objection would be pointless.

“Behind the church,” the witness answers. “There’s a small cemetery back there, a dozen or so ancient graves clustered around a statue of Saint Veronica. Frank used to go out there in all sorts of weather to say his Divine Office.”

Geraldine’s eyebrows arch before she turns back to her witness. “Divine Office, Your Eminence?”

Harry stirs beside me but he doesn’t stand. Again, the question is irrelevant but harmless. Harry Madigan is good at choosing his courtroom battles; Catholicism questions are fights he can forfeit.

“Canonical prayers,” Monsignor Davis explains to the jurors, “prayers we priests recite every day. Frank liked to say his out behind the church. He seemed to find peace there, amid the centuries-old graves and the image of our parish’s patron.”

“Ah, Saint Veronica.” Geraldine’s somber expression suggests the witness just raised a critical point. “Tell us about her.”

Judge Gould looks toward Harry, no doubt wondering how long he plans to let this line of questioning continue. When their eyes meet, they both cover their mouths quickly, using fake coughs to camouflage unexpected laughs. Between the two of them, they’ve handled every thug in the county, but neither has the chutzpah to bounce a lady saint from the courtroom. I lean into Harry and cluck like a chicken. Still he keeps his laughter in check, but his face turns beet-red from the effort.

“Veronica Giuliani,” the Monsignor says, “a remarkable woman. She was born in Mercatello, a small village in Italy, in 1660. At seventeen, she joined the convent—the Poor Clares—against her wealthy father’s wishes, I might add. Two decades later she received the stigmata.”

“The stigmata?” Geraldine sounds like she just can’t wait to find out what that’s all about.

“Think our District Attorney is planning to convert?” Harry whispers.

“Only if they let her be the Pope,” I tell him.

“Yes,” the Monsignor says, “an amazing phenomenon. Historically, certain saints and blessed persons became known as stigmatics. They developed wounds—physical markings—that mirrored those inflicted upon Jesus Christ at the crucifixion. Veronica’s stigmata met with a great deal of skepticism at first, as most of them did. But the Church conducted an extensive investigation and, after years of inquiry, determined there was every reason to believe her wounds were the result of divine action. Theologians have documented three hundred and twenty-one such cases since the thirteenth century. The first was Francis of Assisi.”

Judge Gould looks like he’s about ready to put a stop to all this, but Harry speaks up first. “Hey, Francis of Assisi,” he says, as if the witness just mentioned a mutual childhood friend. “He’s the animal guy.”

The jurors all chuckle and Monsignor Davis does too. “That’s right,” he says, smiling at Harry. “Saint Francis is well known as the patron saint of animals.”

Geraldine looks perturbed. No prosecutor wants levity injected into a murder trial, not even a few seconds of it. She’s hard-pressed to complain, though. She led us down this path, after all.

“Ms. Schilling,” the judge says, “I think we’ve gone pretty far afield here. Let’s get back to the matter at hand, shall we?”