“Firmly convinced,” Harry repeats. “You should convict Mr. Holliston of murder only if you are firmly convinced that he did not act in self-defense.”

Harry turns and looks at Geraldine again. “And you can’t be,” he adds. “Not on the evidence produced in this courtroom.”

Geraldine stares back at him, seemingly unfazed by his focus on her. She’s known Harry Madigan a long time, though; she knows he’s just warming up.

Harry shifts his attention from Geraldine to our table before facing the jury again. “There are a few things we know for sure,” he continues. He spreads his arms wide and leans on the railing of the jury box. “We know Mr. Holliston admitted his role in Father McMahon’s death from the outset. We know he told the Chief of Police about the unwelcome sexual advances, and about the ensuing struggle, on the morning of his arrest. And we know he stuck to his guns during every subsequent interview; he never wavered.”

A few of the jurors have pens in their hands, notepads on their laps. No one’s writing anything, though. They’re motionless. Harry has their undivided attention.

“And that’s not all we know,” he says, his voice growing louder. Geraldine stiffens even before he wheels around. “We know the District Attorney’s office concealed evidence.” His voice is booming now. “Critical evidence.”

Geraldine looks up and meets Harry’s accusing eyes. Clarence doesn’t.

“Why did they do that?” Harry turns back to the jurors, inviting the fourteen of them to speculate on the prosecutors’ motivations. “Why did they conceal a material fact from the defense?”

The spectators stir and Harry waits, as if he thinks someone else in the room might answer his question. He doesn’t. He’s waiting for quiet. “I’ll give you one reason,” he says when the silence is complete. “They did it because the missing monstrance blows yet another hole in this sorry excuse for a case, another hole in a case that already looks like Swiss cheese.”

He walks slowly across the room and points at Geraldine, no doubt a first for both of them. “Our District Attorney would have you believe Mr. Holliston entered St. Veronica’s Chapel last Christmas Eve intending to commit a felony. She’d have you believe he killed Father McMahon in the course of committing that felony.”

Harry stops pointing, but he stays planted smack in front of Geraldine. “But there’s a problem with our District Attorney’s theory,” he says quietly. “She has no evidence to support it.”

Geraldine exhales as Harry leaves her table and walks toward ours. “Not one shred of evidence ties this man to anything that was taken from the chapel that night. And who knows what else is missing?”

“Your Honor!” Geraldine’s on her feet, incensed by Harry’s not-so-veiled suggestion that she may be hiding even more.

Judge Gould doesn’t look sympathetic. “This is argument, Counsel,” is all he says. Geraldine looks indignant as she drops back into her chair.

“Now,” Harry continues as if neither Geraldine nor the judge said a word, “let’s talk about the evidence we do have.” He points at the empty witness box. “The Commonwealth called three men to this stand, credible individuals one and all. And every one of them gave you crucial information—critical facts—that support Mr. Holliston’s version of the events that transpired last Christmas Eve.”

Harry pauses in front of our table, picks up a pen and points it at the panel. “Think about that,” he says. “The prosecution’s witnesses—every one of them—buttressed Mr. Holliston’s case.”

It’s clear from the jurors’ expressions that they are thinking about it. They’re not necessarily on the same page with Harry, though. More than a few brows knit. They want him to elaborate.

“First we heard from Calvin Ramsey,” he says, “our Medical Examiner. And though our District Attorney questioned him for more than an hour and a half, she failed to elicit one fact during his direct examination that contradicted what Mr. Holliston has told law enforcement from the beginning. Not one.”

Harry begins a slow stroll back toward the panel. “Dr. Ramsey delivered a critical fact during cross, though. He told you the medical evidence supports only one conclusion: Mr. Holliston and the deceased were face-to-face throughout the altercation. Medical evidence doesn’t lie, ladies and gentlemen. And face-to-face combat isn’t consistent with a robbery—certainly not a planned robbery—no matter how you slice it.”

He pauses and fills a paper cup with water at the vacant witness stand. A few jurors jot notes as he drinks. “Next we heard from Chief Thomas Fitzpatrick,” he says, crumpling the cup and tossing it into the plastic trash can near Dottie Bearse’s desk, “a stand-up guy if ever there was one. Such a stand-up guy, in fact, that he outed our District Attorney.”

“Your Honor!” Geraldine Schilling has probably never heard herself described as outed before.

Judge Gould shakes his head at her, says nothing. Nondisclosure doesn’t go over well in his courtroom, intentional or not. On this issue, he’s giving Harry free rein.

Harry stands still, looking up at the bench, letting the jurors absorb the judge’s non-verbal response to our District Attorney’s protest. “And finally,” he says, turning back to the panel, “this morning we heard from Monsignor Davis. We heard about all sorts of things during his direct examination, didn’t we? None of it had a damned thing to do with this case, but it was interesting, nonetheless.”

More than a few jurors seem to agree with him; they nod and look from him to Geraldine, then back again. He leans on the jury box railing. “The Monsignor did have two things to tell us that matter, but our District Attorney didn’t raise either one. Only during cross-examination did the witness get to address two issues that actually bear on this case. They’re important. Keep them in mind.”

A couple of the note-takers shift in their seats, pens poised.

“First,” Harry says, “let’s talk about the weapon, the ice pick. Monsignor Davis told you it belongs to the parish. It was in a wooden crate, a toolbox of sorts, on the sacristy counter. It’s not something Derrick Holliston brought with him that night. So our District Attorney would have you believe Mr. Holliston went to St. Veronica’s Chapel intending to rob the collection money, prepared to kill anyone who tried to stop him, but he didn’t bother to bring a weapon along. He simply assumed there’d be one on hand.”

Harry stands up straight and turns to look at Geraldine again. “Or maybe she’d have you believe he did bring a weapon, but then decided to look around the room and shop for a different one once he got there.”

Harry faces the panel, his hands in his pants pockets again. “Common sense, ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “The District Attorney’s theories don’t hold water.”

He starts walking back toward the prosecutors’ table and I’m pretty sure everyone in the courtroom knows what’s coming. Geraldine does, anyway. She folds her arms across her chest and squares her shoulders. “Now,” Harry says quietly, staring at her, “let’s talk about the monstrance.”

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t talk about anything for what seems like a full minute. He finishes his trip to the prosecutors’ table and stands facing them, his profile to the jury. Clarence fidgets, fussing with files, documents, and legal pads. Geraldine doesn’t. She sits perfectly still, staring back at Harry, seemingly more than prepared to deflect whatever hand grenade he’s about to lob at her.

“Monsignor Davis told us he met with Chatham police officers three or four times,” Harry says at last. “And he met with our District Attorney five or six times. And at every meeting—every meeting—he brought up the topic of the missing monstrance, stressed its significance to him and his parish.”