William Bernhardt - Criminal intent

Canelli wrapped it up by bringing Ernestine to the fateful wedding and the confrontation in the corridor. Ernestine's version had a few new wrinkles.

"I just happened to be in an alcove between the offices and the main corridor when the argument started. At first, I couldn't help but listen and didn't think anything of it. Then it became embarrassing. The fight just kept getting worse and worse, and I couldn't come out without making it obvious I'd been there all along. I had to stay put."

"So you heard the whole thing."

Ernestine nodded. "Whether I liked it or not. And believe me, I didn't like it. His language was grossly offensive. I've never heard such words-certainly not from a priest."

"What was Kate McGuire saying?"

"She was telling him he was evil, or what he was doing was evil. She didn't want it to continue. And he just kept on yelling at her. Finally, he threatened her. 'I won't put up with this,' he said. 'This isn't over.' "

Canelli paused, allowing the grim words to sink in with the jury. "And the next time you saw Daniel Beale?" he asked finally.

"Was after the wedding. I was in the alcove again, and I saw him rush by, down the corridor toward the bathroom. His hands were red." She paused, and her voice wavered slightly. "They were covered with blood."

"Thank you, Mrs. Rupert," Canelli said gravely. "No more questions." Ben scrutinized his opponent as he approached the podium. She sat prim and nearly motionless, poised in the chair with her handbag in her lap and her hands crossed over it. She was a sympathetic, somewhat vulnerable appearing woman, and Ben knew if he came down too hard on her, it might alienate some of the jurors. But in this case, that was just too damn bad.

"You must be awfully fond of that alcove," Ben said, first off the bat. He let the declarative sentence hang in the air, giving everyone time to turn it around, consider it, guess where he was going.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Well," Ben explained, "twice you said you were hanging around in there by yourself, for no apparent reason. What gives? Have they got closed circuit TV in there?"

Ernestine ran her tongue along her teeth before answering. "No."

"Then why were you in the alcove?"

Ernestine drew in a tiny breath, giving herself a moment to think. "I find it a quiet spot, somewhat secluded. A good place to gather my thoughts, meditate, pray."

"Come now, Mrs. Rupert. I've seen the alcove. There's not even a chair in there."

"Nonetheless, I-"

"That's where you meet your blackmail victims, isn't it?"

Her head turned, at a small but unnatural angle. "Excuse me?"

"That's where you meet the multitude of parishioners-the ones you love like brothers and sisters-who you're blackmailing!" He said the word nice and loud, so everyone could hear it. "Right?"

"I-I sometimes meet people there. But I certainly never-"

"Don't tell me you're going to deny that you're blackmailing several members of the church."

"I-I do deny it. I would never-"

"I have witnesses, Mrs. Rupert." Out the corner of his eye, he could see the jury leaning forward, craning their necks with interest. "Two members of my staff have observed you shaking someone down. I've witnessed it. I've seen you running off after services, or during choir practice, clutching your little blue account book. Where is that, anyway?"

She had reflexively glanced down at her lap before she could stop herself. "I don't know what you mean."

"It's in your purse, isn't it? I figured as much; as far as I can tell you never go anywhere without it. Show it to the jury, Mrs. Rupert."

"I have to object," Canelli said. "These groundless accusations have nothing to do with the murder."

"I think the relevance will be clear soon," Ben replied, "if it isn't already."

Judge Pitcock nodded. "I'll allow defense counsel some latitude. Proceed."

"So what about it, Mrs. Rupert? Do you have your account book in your purse?"

She hesitated, obviously unsure what to say. "I… don't really know…"

"Well, why don't you take a look and see? I'm betting you do."

She glanced at the judge. "No one told me my… purse would be searched. Can he do this?"

"I'm afraid he can, ma'am. If you brought it into the courtroom, it's fair game."

A frown settled on her face. She looked down, looked up, looked down again. Slowly her hand crept toward her handbag.

And emerged a few moments later holding the little blue book.

"May I approach?" Ben asked. The judge nodded. Ben strode forward, snatched the book, and began rifling through the pages.

"Lots of accounts in here, I see. Labeled by initials, rather than names. How discreet." He held the pages up so the jury could see. "Looks to me like you've collected ten, maybe fifteen thousand dollars over the last few years." He placed the book on the barrier between himself and the jury. "Are you still going to try to deny your blackmail operation, Mrs. Rupert?"

"It's isn't blackmail. I just-I like to lend money to people when they need it. To help out."

"Oh, so this is a charitable operation, is it?"

"Well… not exactly. They pay back the money over time."

"And then some, judging from this book."

"Charging interest is traditional. That doesn't make it blackmail."

Ben moved in closer. "So if I call Alvin Greene or Paul Masterson to the stand, they'll testify that you lent them money out of the kindness of your heart?"

She didn't answer immediately.

"Shall we test that theory?"

Her eyes darted around the courtroom. Ben could see the wheels turning inside her head. Could he make good his threat? What would happen if he did?

"Tell the truth, Mrs. Rupert. Because I'm prepared to call everyone in your book to the stand if necessary. And now that the secret's out, someone's likely to tell the truth."

Ernestine licked her lips pensively. She still didn't answer.

"This didn't have anything to do with lending money, did it? Much less charity. These aren't interest payments you're keeping track of. It's blackmail! Admit it!"

Ernestine shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "Make him stop," she said quietly. "Won't someone make him stop?"

"You spent your whole time at that church collecting information you could use to extract your blood money. You'd go to church socials and teas and dig around and gossip till you learned what you needed. Some tidbit about somebody's past, or sexual preference, or whatever dark secret they didn't want revealed, especially at church. And you'd use that to milk them dry."

"It isn't true." She was talking more to herself than anyone else. "It isn't."

She was visibly shaken. Now was the time to tie it all back to the case. "But you know what initials I don't see in this book? D.B. And that's why you hated Father Beale, isn't it? You couldn't control him like you did the others. He wasn't in the club. What's more, if he ever found out about it, you knew he'd put an end to it. And you'd be without this lovely little income stream. So he became the enemy."

Ernestine's face was blotching. "It isn't so. That isn't-"

"And that's why you're testifying against him now, isn't it? That's why you're so bound and determined to say whatever it takes to get him out and get in some other priest you can control. That's what it's all about, isn't it? You're protecting your dirty little extortion racket."

Ernestine twisted around, breathing rapidly. "You're wrong. That isn't why."

"So says the blackmailer. But how can we believe anything you say? You're a major felon."

"I-I don't-"

"Tell us the truth, Ernestine. You hate Father Beale, don't you? You hate him so much you'll do or say anything to get rid of him."

"Yes!" she said, with a sudden shattering intensity. "Yes, I hate him!"