Even fewer members of the panel choose to look at the grisly crime scene this time. Geraldine doesn’t try to force the issue. She lowers the photo to her side after just a few seconds—a wise decision, I think. These jurors have about had it.

“Mr. Madigan spoke with you at great length about reasonable doubt,” Geraldine says. “I don’t plan to do so. On the subject of reasonable doubt, I tell you only one thing: the operative word is reasonable.”

A few jurors nod at her. A few others jot quick reminders in their notepads.

“Mr. Madigan also spoke with you at length about the monstrance,” she says, “about my failure to disclose its disappearance. Again, I don’t plan to say much about it. On the matter of my failure to disclose the missing monstrance to the defense, I tell you two things. First, it was a mistake, my mistake. And second, it doesn’t have anything to do with the defendant’s guilt or innocence; it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.”

Geraldine folds her arms, pressing the glossy to her side, its blank, white back facing outward. “The defendant would have you believe that a man with no history of violence, a Catholic priest who led a life of prayer, a life of service to others, suddenly—at the age of fifty-seven—revealed his never-before-seen diabolical side. And he did it on one of the holiest nights of the year.”

She half laughs again. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is the theory of this case that doesn’t hold water. Men who are violent tend to mellow in middle age,” she says. “It doesn’t work the other way around.”

She paces the length of the jury box, her arms still folded, her head tilted toward the panel. “Common sense, ladies and gentlemen. This case isn’t about unwanted sexual advances. It isn’t about fending off forced attentions. And it certainly isn’t about self-defense.”

They stare at her, rapt, all fourteen of them. Still, their faces reveal nothing.

“We all know what happened here,” she says as she comes to a stop near the middle of the box. She raises her favorite glossy again, says nothing.

Three-quarters of the jurors avert their eyes this time around; Cora Rowlands isn’t the only one who’s reached the saturation point. But Geraldine does intend to force the issue now. She waits, her silence suggesting she’ll stand there for the rest of the month if that’s what it takes to get them to view the bloody scene one last time. And one by one, they do. All but Cora.

“This is what happened,” our District Attorney says at last. “A holy place. A holy man. An unholy crime.”

Chapter 24

“Relax,” Harry says as he drops into the chair across from mine. “It’s Friday. Maybe he went out for a beer.”

I stare across the table at him, drumming my fingers on the red Formica. “When was the last time you saw him go out for a beer at two in the afternoon?”

The Kydd isn’t answering the phones again. And we’ve already learned what that means: nothing good.

“Well, then maybe he’s doing a little Christmas shopping. ’Tis the season, you know.” Harry leans closer and lowers his voice. “Tell the truth,” he says. “What do you think he’ll get for me?”

I frown. Even he doesn’t believe the Kydd is shopping. We’re back at the Piccadilly, where today’s special is a fried clam roll, with fries and slaw on the side. Harry ordered two. He needs to keep his strength up, he said, while the jury deliberates. He also ordered a cranberry muffin for me—grilled and buttered—and I’ve all but finished it. Trial is over, after all. There’s nothing to do now but wait.

“I just wish he’d return my messages, tell us what the hell is going on.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry says, squeezing open the spout of his second chocolate milk. “We’ve only been out of the courthouse twenty minutes. And besides, bad news keeps, remember?”

He’s right. That’s precisely why I’m on edge.

“Oh, look,” he says, sounding delighted, “it’s the God Squad.” He waves toward the door, as if he’s hailing a cab, so I turn to find out who’s here. It’s Geraldine, with Monsignor Davis in tow.

The Piccadilly doesn’t often host a monsignor, of course, but it’s even more surprising to see Geraldine Schilling in here. The deli doesn’t allow smoking. And everyone in the Barnstable County Complex knows our District Attorney doesn’t eat, ever. Caffeine and nicotine sustain her.

“Over here,” Harry calls, still waving at them. “Join us, Your Émigré. And by all means, bring your friend.”

Oddly enough, he does. They cross the room and stand beside our table, coats buttoned up tight. The Monsignor smiles at us. Geraldine doesn’t. “What a surprise,” she says to Harry, running her leather gloves across her palm as she takes in the twin platters. “You’re snacking.”

He grins up at both of them and points to his second meal, as yet untouched. “Help yourselves,” he says. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

Geraldine scowls; she’d sooner swallow arsenic. The Monsignor laughs and takes a few fries.

“What keeps you in our midst, Padre?” Harry sticks a thumb out at Geraldine. “You’re not trying to save her wretched soul, are you?”

Monsignor Davis laughs again, then grows serious. “The Kendricks are part-time parishioners,” he says. “I thought I might be of some assistance to them, offer some spiritual support.”

Harry sets his half-eaten clam roll on the cardboard platter.

My stomach knots. “The Kendricks? What about them? Why do they need support, spiritual or otherwise?”

The Monsignor looks suddenly worried. He doesn’t answer; he turns to Geraldine instead, giving her the floor. She has news, apparently, and before she says a word, I know exactly what it is. “Charles Kendrick is in custody,” she tells me, pointing toward the courthouse. “I thought you’d want to know. He’s in lockup now; Chatham’s finest ran him in at my direction. Your associate is with him.”

So much for the Kydd’s shopping spree.

“Arraignment is scheduled for five,” she says. “I expect you’ll want to hang around for it.”

“Five? All the players are here now. What are we waiting for?” Not that I’m in any big hurry. Harry was right. Bad news keeps.

“To accommodate the family,” she says. “They want to attend. And they can’t get here before then.”

I shake my head. “They’re in Chatham. They could be here in forty minutes.” I realize my mistake before I finish the sentence.

“Not that family,” she says. “The Forresters. They asked that we give them enough time to make the drive from Stamford.”

Of course they did. Warren, Catherine, and Meredith want to hear Geraldine’s evidence against the Senator firsthand. They want to look him in the eye, if they can get close enough. They want to ask the question all murder victims’ families ask, the one that burns in their hearts, the one that’s never adequately answered. Why?

Geraldine turns and heads for the door, her mission apparently accomplished. Monsignor Davis starts to follow, but he pauses and rests a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll say a prayer,” he says.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “I’d ask for a word or two of your Divine Office, but that’s only for priests. And I’m not even a Catholic.” I’d never heard of the Divine Office until he testified this morning, but I don’t tell him that part.

He smiles again, and it’s genuine. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Prayer helps us all.”

With that, he leaves, and for a split second I wish I were Catholic, a notion I’ve never stumbled upon before. It’s a fleeting fancy, of course, but at the moment I’m not certain of anything. Faith might help. I wish mine weren’t so riddled with doubt.