Harry feigns abject disappointment before turning back to the witness. “Monsignor Davis,” he says, “the collection money disappeared last Christmas Eve, didn’t it?”

“It did.”

“Any estimate on how much money vanished?”

The Monsignor shrugs. “Our parishioners are quite generous all year round,” he says, “but never more so than at Christmas and Easter. Most years the Vigil collection brings in more than a thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money,” Harry says, “to have erased from your operating budget without warning.”

“It is,” the priest agrees.

“Anything else disappear that night?”

Monsignor Davis nods. “The monstrance,” he says. “The holy monstrance was taken from the altar, the consecrated host within it.”

“Yesterday afternoon, Monsignor, we heard testimony from Chatham’s Chief Fitzpatrick.”

The witness nods again.

“He told us you discovered Father McMahon’s body in the sacristy last Christmas Eve, called the police, and then noticed the empty collection basket. Do you agree with that sequence of events?”

“I do,” the priest says. “That’s exactly how it happened.”

“When did you notice the monstrance was missing?”

The question is perfectly proper, but Geraldine gets to her feet anyway. She does this frequently. It’s her “I don’t have an objection yet but give me a minute and I’ll sure as hell come up with one” stance.

“Right away,” Monsignor Davis says. “As soon as I entered the church, I saw that the altar was empty. I thought maybe Frank had taken the monstrance to the sacristy to polish it up a bit. Sometimes it gets smudged when we handle it, when we transfer it from its usual home in the Holy Tabernacle.”

“When you called the police, did you mention the monstrance?”

“No.” The Monsignor shakes his head. “I don’t remember what I said, to tell you the truth, but I’m certain I spoke of nothing but Frank.”

“When did you mention it?”

“That night. I met with the Chief and another officer after the Medical Examiner’s people took Frank’s body away. I tried to explain the significance of the consecrated host, the urgency with which our parishioners would want it recovered, if possible.”

“Did you meet with the Chief or other Chatham officers after that night?”

“Oh yes,” the witness answers. “Several times.”

“Give us a guesstimate,” Harry says.

Monsignor Davis shrugs. “I don’t know. Three, four times, maybe.”

“What about our District Attorney?” Harry turns and smiles at her as he asks. She doesn’t smile back. “How many times would you say you’ve met with her?”

“Five or six,” the Monsignor says. “Again, though, I’m guessing.”

“Did you mention the monstrance at each of those meetings?”

“I’m sure I did,” the priest says. “It’s been a constant concern.”

“Would it be fair to say, Monsignor Davis, that during your multiple meetings with the Chatham police, and during your multiple meetings with our District Attorney, you expressed more urgency over the disappearance of the monstrance than you did over the missing money, the missing thousand-plus dollars?”

“Just a minute.” Geraldine leaves her table and heads for the bench. It took a few moments, but she’s come up with a beef. “This witness isn’t a forensic expert,” she says to the judge. “His ‘sense of urgency’ about a particular piece of evidence doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.”

Geraldine Schilling doesn’t often make tactical mistakes, but I’m pretty sure she’s making one now. Trying to silence one’s own witness is almost never a good idea. Harry actually laughs. “I missed the hill-of-beans class in law school,” he says, “but I do believe my Sister Counsel is telling us this witness’s opinion on the matter is irrelevant.”

Judge Gould looks as if he’s prepared to rule, but Harry keeps talking.

“That would be the same Sister Counsel who spent the last half hour discussing rectory staffing, canonical prayers, and stigmata,” he says. “And now she raises a relevance objection to a question about a piece of evidence that was taken from the scene of the crime?”

“All right, Mr. Madigan,” the judge says, his voice low. “That’s enough.”

Harry’s not finished, though. He turns to the jurors. “That would be the same Sister Counsel who withheld the fact of that theft from the defense for an entire year.” He points back toward our table. “Maybe our District Attorney would like to object to this man’s having a trial at all. Maybe we’re taking up too much of her time. Maybe it would be more convenient for her if we just lock him up now, ask questions later.”

“Mr. Madigan!” Judge Gould bangs his gavel once, hard, to shut Harry up. “You’ve made your point,” he says. “You may proceed.” He sets his gavel down and turns to Geraldine. “Ms. Schilling, your objection is overruled.”

She storms back to her table and Derrick Holliston jabs my arm with his elbow. He actually looks pleased when I turn to face him—a first. He narrows his eyes to slits and points his pen at Harry. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” he says.

I’m weary of him.

“Monsignor Davis,” Harry continues, his voice raised as if he’s still arguing, “can you answer the question, sir?”

The Monsignor looks flustered, his brown eyes even wider than usual. “What was it?” he asks.

Most of the jurors chuckle.

“Damned if I know,” Harry says.

The entire panel laughs now. Geraldine is furious.

Harry points to the court reporter, an attractive, thirty-something brunette who’s new to her courthouse job. She stops tapping at once and reaches for the narrow strip of encoded paper that snakes from the front of her machine. She searches for a few moments and then clears her throat. “ ‘Would it be fair to say, Monsignor Davis,’ ” she recites in a monotone, “ ‘that during your multiple meetings with the Chatham police, and during your multiple meetings with our District Attorney, you expressed more urgency over the disappearance of the monstrance than you did over the missing money, the missing thousand-plus dollars?’ ”

The Monsignor nods emphatically. “Absolutely,” he says. “We hated to lose so much money, especially at that time of year. We try to help our less fortunate families make ends meet through the winter, when heating expenses are so steep, so the loss of the money was a real blow. But the theft of the monstrance—the theft of the Blessed Sacrament—was far worse.”

“Tell us why,” Harry says.

Generally speaking, lawyers ask questions that call for yes-orno answers during cross-examinations. Even a witness who wants to elaborate on a particular point is normally barred from doing so during cross, forced to wait until redirect, if there is one. Not this witness, though. Harry will let Dominic Davis talk all day, as long as he’s emphasizing the importance of the missing monstrance.

The Monsignor pauses now, seems to want to choose his words carefully. “The consecrated host,” he says at last, “is the body of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Maria Marzetti bows her head at the mention of the Lord’s name. Cora Rowlands makes the sign of the cross; when she raises her hand to her forehead, I realize she’s cradling rosary beads. Holliston notices too; he snorts and turns to stare at the side wall again.

“You must understand,” the witness says, leaning toward the jury. He seems concerned that he hasn’t made himself clear. “The consecrated host is not a symbol of Christ’s body, it is his body.”

Maria and Cora nod in agreement. The others don’t react.

“We’ll take your word on that,” Harry says. “But what about the other two?”

“Other two?”

“Aren’t there three of them?” Harry asks. “A trio?”

The Monsignor appears to be at a loss for a moment, but then he breaks into a smile. “You’re referring to the Trinity,” he says to Harry. “The Holy Trinity.”

“Bingo,” Harry says.