“Certainly, Your Honor.” She sounds unusually agreeable, relieved even. Exploring the vagaries of Catholicism was fun until Harry piped up. “Your Eminence,” she says, “tell us what you remember about last Christmas Eve.”

Harry tenses beside me. Geraldine’s not in foul territory yet, but she’s batting in that direction.

“Well,” the Monsignor says, “Frank and I always took turns celebrating the Christmas Vigil Mass. Last year was his turn.” The priest pauses, looks out at the gallery, and shakes his head; for the first time since he took the stand, he looks sad, forlorn even. “Sometimes I wish it had been mine.”

Geraldine waits while her witness pours a glass of water and sips.

“In any event,” he says, “whichever one of us wasn’t celebrating the Vigil always came over to help out with Communion. We normally have quite a large turnout on Christmas Eve. I helped Frank last year, and then went back across the street, to the rectory.” He shakes his head again, his eyes lowered to his lap this time. “Not a day goes by that I don’t regret it. Things might have turned out differently if I’d stayed.”

He’s right, of course. Things almost certainly would have turned out differently if he’d stayed. If Holliston’s telling the truth, the presence of a third party would have nixed any amorous advances, real or imagined. If Holliston’s lying, the two-to-one ratio might have scared him off, forced him to stalk an alternate quarry. But if Holliston had his heart set on going home with the Christmas Eve collection no matter what, St. Veronica’s Parish probably would have ended up with two dead priests.

“But you went back to the chapel again later, is that right?” Geraldine turns away from the witness and walks slowly toward us, staring at Holliston and silently inviting the jurors to do likewise.

“I did,” Monsignor Davis says. “Mass had started at seven. We’d finished with Holy Communion just before eight. Frank would’ve given the final blessing a few minutes after that. When he wasn’t back at the rectory by nine, I went across the street to see what was keeping him.”

“Were you worried?” Geraldine asks.

The Monsignor shakes his head. “Not at all,” he says. “I fully expected to find Frank relaxed in one of the back pews, chewing the fat with a parishioner. That was his way; he always had time for a heart-to-heart or a good yarn.”

“So what made you check on him?”

The Monsignor shrugs. “I figured I’d join them,” he says, “Frank and whatever parishioner was enjoying a Christmas Eve visit with him.”

Geraldine pauses, clasps her hands behind her back, and takes a deep breath. “Tell us, Your Eminence, what you found when you returned to the chapel that night.”

Harry’s up. “Absolutely not,” he says.

Judge Gould nods; he knows what Harry’s about to say. And he agrees. Geraldine has a half dozen graphic crime scene photographs in evidence. She doesn’t get a verbal description as well.

“It’s cumulative,” Harry continues. “It’s out of the question.”

Monsignor Davis looks surprised. This is the first time he’s heard Harry raise his voice.

“That’s nonsense,” Geraldine counters. “The Monsignor’s entitled to tell us what he found when he went back to the church.”

“No, he’s not.” Harry’s directly in front of the judge, pointing back at Geraldine. “Not after she introduced multiple photographs of the scene. At this point, the prejudicial impact of this testimony far outweighs its probative value. It has no probative value. It’s nothing but repetitive.”

Judge Gould continues to nod. “Sustained,” he says. “Monsignor Davis, please disregard the District Attorney’s last question.”

“Whatever you say,” the witness answers.

“Ms. Schilling,” the judge adds, “move on.”

She gives another short performance for the jury—another thrust of her arms and shake of her head—and then plasters a resigned expression on her face. The judge has left her with no alternative; she’ll have to get to the proper questions now. “Your Eminence,” she says, “are you aware that the defendant in this case has raised a self-defense claim?”

“I am,” he says. “I’m aware of that through your office.” The Monsignor delivers his answer to Geraldine, but she’s not looking at him. She’s continuing her slow journey toward us, staring at Derrick Holliston’s profile.

“You’re aware, are you not, Your Eminence, that the defendant claims Father Francis Patrick McMahon made inappropriate sexual contact with him, that Father Francis Patrick McMahon became violent when his advances were rejected, so violent, in fact, that this defendant had no choice but to fight for his own life?”

The Monsignor is quiet for a moment, apparently unsure who he should speak to now that Geraldine is on the other side of the room. “I am,” he says to the jurors. “I’m aware of those claims, all of them.”

Geraldine stops smack in front of Holliston and turns to face the witness again. All outward appearances suggest she’s completely calm, relaxed even, but I know better. She’s on an adrenaline high. She doesn’t say a word until the room falls silent. “Now I ask you, Your Eminence,” she says quietly, “based upon your knowledge of Father Francis Patrick McMahon, based upon your knowledge of his character, based upon your observations of his conduct with third parties, based upon the totality of your experience with him, are this defendant’s claims credible?”

Geraldine didn’t point at Derrick Holliston until she said the last phrase, an extraordinary exercise of willpower on her part.

Monsignor Davis doesn’t answer right away. He looks at the jurors, one at a time, as he seems to search for words. “They’re not,” he says at last. “They’re simply not.”

Geraldine doesn’t move. Her index finger is still in Derrick Holliston’s face, and she keeps it there while the Monsignor’s words resonate through the silent courtroom. Finally, she drops her hand to her side and looks at Harry. “Your witness,” she says.

Harry stands and smooths his suit coat, then walks toward the witness box, pointing a pen at its occupant. “No disrespect intended here,” he says, “but I’m going to have trouble with this ‘Your Emperor’ thing.”

“Your Honor!” Geraldine’s on her feet, but Harry keeps going.

“Any reason I can’t just call you Monsignor?”

Most of the jurors laugh now. Even Judge Gould struggles to suppress a smile. Dominic Davis wears his openly. “None at all,” he says. “Monsignor will do nicely.”

Geraldine shakes her head and drops back into her chair.

“Now about Veronica Giuliani,” Harry says, “is she related to Rudy?”

More laughter, from the gallery, from the jury box, even from the bench. Geraldine is beside herself. There’s not a hell of a lot she can do about it, though. She’s the one who dragged Veronica into this in the first place.

“Could be.” Monsignor Davis seems intrigued by the idea. “If the mayor were to trace his family tree back far enough, he might just bump into her.”

Harry laughs. “So maybe old Rudy’s related to a saint?”

The Monsignor takes a moment to consider and then smiles. “God calls each and every one of us to be a saint,” he says.

Harry scratches his head. “I must’ve been out,” he says. “And the big guy didn’t leave a message.”

“Your Honor, please.” Geraldine’s on her feet. “This is far beyond the scope of direct. My Brother Counsel is out of line.”

Harry turns to face her. He looks offended. “Not so,” he says. “I didn’t know Veronica’s last name until you, Sister Counsel, brought it to my attention. I’m entitled to explore.”

Judge Gould leans forward on the bench and peers down at both of them over the tops of his dark-framed glasses. He looks like a frustrated parent dealing with perpetually bickering children. Gives a whole new meaning to the “Brother/Sister Counsel” phenomenon. “Mr. Madigan,” he says, “I’m afraid your theological pursuits, admirable though they may be, will have to wait until another day, sir. Move on.”