William Bernhardt - Criminal intent

"He's admitted that," Ben said. "Who among us hasn't made mistakes? The point is, he wants to make good here. Can't we let him? Can't we forgive his errors? Come to think of it, isn't that what Christianity is all about?"

Ben gazed across the room, trying without much luck to read the faces.

"I'm speaking to you now, not as a lawyer, but as a member of this church. We haven't passed the point of no return, the place where our differences become utterly irreconcilable. Let's put an end to this unpleasantness before we do. Let's give the man another chance. Let's let him stay at St. Benedict's and continue God's work."

"A noble sentiment," said a familiar voice from the rear of the hall, "but I'm afraid that isn't going to be possible."

Ben knew the speaker even before he turned. Major Mike Morelli, Homicide.

Two uniformed officers stood by the door as Mike calmly crossed the parish hall. To Ben's dismay, he saw that Mike was walking, not to him, but to Father Beale. "Daniel Beale, it is my very unpleasant duty to take you into custody immediately."

Beale appeared stricken. "B-but-why?"

Mike's face remained unexpressive as he gave what Ben knew was the only possible answer. "Sir, I'm afraid I'm under orders to arrest you on the charge of murder. Murder in the first degree."

The Gospel According to Daniel It may surprise some to learn that this was not the first instance in my less than illustrious career when I had been incarcerated. For a time, the jailhouse and I were close friends, although those days now seem like distant reflections barely visible through the cracks of memory. But I grew up in the sixties, after all, and I came to view civil disobedience as a moral duty, an imperative no thinking man could deny.

When I first emerged from seminary, I still had that youthful desire to make a difference and the unquestionable certainty that I could. Now I can see my past self with a certain detached irony, but at the time, I marched out into the world with unquenchable enthusiasm, certain I could make the world a better place. I protested against the proposed Black Fox nuclear plant and won; I protested in favor of the passage of the ERA and lost. And both those activities got me thrown in jail.

Of course, in those days there was a certain radical chic to being the liberal activist priest. I was the Oklahoma version, but there were others like me all across the country, many of whom got far more press than I did, a fact which privately never failed to irritate me. We were the New Wave of religious leaders, men and women who were more interested in this world than the next, who found politics and religion inseparable. To me, "Onward Christian Soldiers" was more than a Sunday school song; it was a rallying cry. The Episcopal Fight Song, if you will.

But those days are long past. Nowadays, if you see a man of God mentioned in the papers, it's because he's been caught with the choirboys or because he's bilked his followers out of another million dollars. Too much of the enthusiasm that spilled out of my youthful soul was squelched long ago, suffocated by the weight of the world and the seeming impossibility of bringing about any permanent change. Yes, we can improve our institutions, we can make our society more progressive. But people remain the same. Human nature, it seems, does not improve. The ego of man, the breadth of his folly, is without limitation. No matter how democratic our government, no matter how sophisticated our technology or how advanced our medicine, people remain people-at times noble, but more often petty and selfish and closed-minded.

But I digress. My attorney asked for a record of the case, not a whining jeremiad. The most ironic detail is that, at this point, I still expected the crisis to blow over. I didn't know what had inspired the police to arrest me, but I never doubted for a moment that they eventually would see the error of their ways. I would be released, all would be forgiven, and I would go on about my holy business.

As I said before, the ego of man, the breadth of his folly, is without limit. "Morning, Murray."

Murray Plimpson, startled, jumped up behind his desk and tried to act as if he hadn't been asleep on the job. "Uh, m-morning, Ben."

"Is it too soon to see my client?"

"N-no, no. Not at all." He fumbled in his pockets for his keys. He had looked peaceful a few minutes before, but now looked utterly wretched; Ben began to feel guilty for having disturbed his sleep. Murray was the night/morning shift superintendent for the downtown county lockup and had been for years. All the local criminals came here after they were arrested and remained until they were transferred to more permanent quarters. "You here to see that kid who clobbered his dad?"

"Clear out the cobwebs, Murray. I bounced Eric Biggers yesterday. Suspended sentence."

"You got that scumbag back on the street with a suspended sentence?" Murray shook his head. "Man, you must be good."

"It's a gift." Ben passed him the file he'd gotten from the desk clerk downstairs. "Actually, I'm here to see Daniel Beale."

Murray's eyes widened a bit, droopy as they were. "You got the killer priest?"

"Accused killer, Murray. He didn't do it."

"Yeah, that's what they all say." Murray glanced over his shoulder toward the cells. "Literally."

Murray opened the thick double-bolted steel door and led Ben down the main corridor of the downtown lockup. The grill floor rattled thunderously beneath their feet, notifying all present that a visitor was approaching. Ben knew his suit and tie immediately identified him; Murray might as well have announced, "Lawyer on the bridge!"

A scabrous man in a cell on the right reached his long arm through the bars. "Hey, lawyer! I shouldn't be here. I didn't do nothing!"

Another man on the other side shouted, "Me too! I'm totally innocent, man. I was framed!"

Murray gave Ben a sideways glance. "Whaddid I tell ya?"

Murray led Ben to the last cell on the right. Inside the dark, tiny room, Ben saw a hunched figure on the floor before his metal cot. He was on his knees.

Praying.

Murray turned the key in the lock. Father Beale heard the noise and looked up. Ben stepped inside.

"Let me know if you need anything," Murray said.

"I will. Thanks." Ben approached Father Beale. It was hard to think of him as Father Beale, dressed as he was in the standard issue orange jail pajamas rather than a black suit with a white collar. He didn't look like a man of God. Sadly enough, he didn't look like anything except another criminal, no different from any of the other poor souls who had proclaimed their innocence as Ben made his way down the corridor. His eyes were red and tired; he probably had not slept well. His back was slightly bent, even after he rose to his feet.

"How are you holding up?"

"Well enough," Beale said. "When do I get out of here?"

"I don't know," Ben replied. Better to be honest than to disappoint.

"I've been in jail before, you know. Civic protests, that sort of thing. But I was never behind bars for more than twenty-four hours."

"This is a capital murder charge," Ben said. "This is… different." He took a seat on the edge of the cot, since there were no other options. "We've got an arraignment set for tomorrow morning where I'll ask the court to set bail. But I have to tell you, Father-Oklahoma judges almost never grant bail to capital murder defendants."

"But surely in my case-where the evidence is entirely circumstantial-and I'm a priest, after all."

"Believe me, Father, I'll be playing every card I have. But it's still a long shot."

"Then I could be stuck here-until the trial?"

Ben nodded. Or longer, he thought, but did not say.

"But who will look after the church? Who will take care of my parish?"