Текст книги "False Testimony"

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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?”

“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.”

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.

Geraldine jumps to her feet. She sees more levity coming and she wants to head it off at the pass. “We’ll stipulate,” she says, holding both hands up like a traffic cop. “For God’s sake, let’s not go down that path. We’ll stipulate to the doctrine of the Trinity. Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

“ ‘They caught the last train for the coast,’ ” Harry half sings. Gregory Harmon laughs out loud, then covers his mouth and fires a facial apology to the judge.

“Spirit,” Monsignor Davis says to our District Attorney. “Since the Second Vatican Council, we call the third member of the Trinity the Holy Spirit.”

Harry turns and gives Geraldine yet another smile, this one accompanied by a wink. “Been a while, heh, Counselor?”

“Mr. Madigan!” Judge Gould bangs his gavel again, kneading his temple with his free hand. Harry had better curb his editorial comments; the judge’s patience is wearing thin. His little ditty was well worth it, though. The jurors are still laughing. And Geraldine Schilling is livid.

Harry nods up at the judge, then turns back to the witness. “The man in charge wants me to wrap it up here,” he says to Monsignor Davis. “So let’s talk turkey.”

The Monsignor laughs a little. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s.”

“Father McMahon was already dead when you entered the church last Christmas Eve, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” the priest says, “he was.”

“And you didn’t see what happened to him, did you?”

Monsignor Davis hesitates.

“You saw the aftermath of what happened,” Harry adds quickly, “but you didn’t see the altercation itself—or any portion of it—or anything that led up to it.”

This clarification seems to assuage the witness’s concerns. “That’s correct,” he says. “I didn’t.”

“And it’s equally true to say you didn’t hear any portion of it, isn’t it, Monsignor?”

“Yes, that’s equally true.”

“So what you’ve offered us here today, Monsignor Davis, is your opinion, isn’t it? You’ve testified to your opinion about what Father McMahon may or may not have done that night.”

Again the priest hesitates and again Harry jumps in quickly to clarify. “In other words, Monsignor, your testimony isn’t based on anything you perceived through your physical senses, is that correct?”

Still, the witness seems reluctant. “That is correct,” he says after a moment. “But bear in mind that my vocation—my life’s work—isn’t based on anything I perceive through my earthly senses, either.”

Harry should have seen that answer coming, but he didn’t. It’s written on his face. And there’s no way in hell he wants to end the cross-examination on that note. “In any case,” he says, pretending the prior response is of no significance, “you’re not here today under subpoena, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re here voluntarily, having told the District Attorney there was no need for a subpoena, is that correct?”

“Yes. That’s correct.”

“And Monsignor, your voluntary appearance here today is explainable—at least in part—by the fact that Francis Patrick McMahon was your good friend, isn’t that true?”

“In part,” the witness says. “Yes, I agree with that.”

“Is it fair to say you felt you owed Father McMahon that much? Is it fair to say that by showing up here today voluntarily you hoped to honor your good friend’s memory, to seek some semblance of justice for his untimely death?”

Monsignor Davis is quiet. He seems to have aged on the witness stand; his demeanor is subdued, his complexion pale. “I suppose that is true,” he says at last. “Certainly the part about honoring Frank’s memory.” He pauses and tilts his head to one side. “But perhaps a man can’t do that answering lawyer questions.”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to be quiet. “Perhaps not,” he says after a moment. He turns away from the witness, walks toward our table, but then stops. “About the weapon,” he says, turning back to face the witness. “Where did it come from?”

Harry’s only asking this question because he already knows the answer. He wouldn’t dare otherwise.

“It was in the sacristy,” the priest says. “The chapel is an old building; we’re constantly making minor repairs, it seems. We keep a wooden box—a crate, I guess you’d call it—on one side of the counter. It’s full of hammers, pliers, screwdrivers—all sorts of tools. The ice pick was among them.”

“Thank you. And one last thing, Monsignor.” Harry’s still standing in the middle of the room, still facing the witness. “I want to offer you my sincere condolences on the loss of your good friend.”

Some defense lawyers routinely offer condolences at the beginnings of cross-examinations, hoping at least some prosecution witnesses will let down their guards, perceive the defender as an ally of sorts. Harry doesn’t. He’s offered his sympathy to this witness—at the end of cross—because he means it.

Monsignor Davis seems to sense as much. He swallows a lump in his throat, then takes another sip of water. “I go out there—to the small cemetery—to pray for Frank every morning,” he says to Harry. “And when I finish, I pray for Mr. Holliston.”

Harry’s surprise is genuine. We don’t often meet a prosecution witness who prays for the accused. He looks from Monsignor Davis to Holliston, and then back to the priest again. “Thanks,” he says as he sits.

The Monsignor nods.

Holliston leans forward, not looking the least bit pleased anymore. His face is scrunched into a maze of hatred and disbelief. “Thanks?” he says too loudly. “Thanks?” He points at the witness box. “That guy calls me a liar and you say thanks? For Chrissake, whose side are you on?”

Harry stares back at our client, but says nothing. And there’s a reason for that, of course. He doesn’t know whose side he’s on.