William Bernhardt - Criminal intent

"Ben… you're acting out. You're personalizing this. I don't know why, but-"

"I'm not personalizing. I'm just sorry to see a trial we've all worked so hard on fall apart at the seams."

There. He'd said it. Everyone knew it already, but now he'd said it. It was on the table. Probably not an ABA-approved technique for counseling your client, but at least now they all knew where they stood.

"Fine," Father Beale said. "I'll testify. I always wanted to."

"Well, you get your wish," Ben said angrily. "And you'd better be good, because frankly-you're your only hope."

"I'll do whatever you tell me."

"You're going to have to give the jury some credible explanation for all this lifestyle couple crap. Something that seems rational, if not acceptable. Make it sound as if you really thought you were accomplishing something, as opposed to just being a horny old man trying to get some."

Beale's neck stiffened. "I'll… do my best."

"You're never going to get an Oklahoma jury to agree that wife-swapping is a good, healthy thing. But at least you can try to convince them it wasn't a motive for murder."

"I understand."

"And make no mistake-Canelli will be gunning for you. He's found your weakness. He'll try to use it to bury you."

"Understood."

"Good." Ben pushed away from the table, walked to the window, and stared out at the horizon.

"So…" Christina said, "… are we ready to proceed? We're going to have to map out this direct. We have to cover a lot of bases. We want to make sure we don't leave anything out."

"Damn straight."

"We still have a few advantages. Canelli will want to cross on the lifestyle stuff, but if we volunteer it on direct, that'll undercut him. And so long as we don't introduce evidence regarding Father Beale's propensity for honesty or truthfulness, Canelli won't be able to use past acts to incriminate him."

"Yes," Ben said, still gazing out the window. "We'll map out the perfect direct examination, and we'll practice it, and we'll practice it again, and we'll practice it again, until we all know it so well we could do it in our sleep." He slowly returned to the table. "But I have one question for you first, Father. One little question. And I'd better like the answer."

Father Beale sat up straight. "Yes?"

Ben leaned across the table like a vulture. He stared directly into his client's eyes. "Is there anything else?"

Beale did not need clarification. "No. Nothing else. No more secrets. Nothing I haven't told you."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. I'm… absolutely positive."

"You'd damn well better be." Ben yanked a chair out from under the table and thought he finally might be able to sit down. "Now let's get to work." "Is she dead?"

"Not yet. But she will be."

Manly gazed down at her prostrate figure, head tilted to one side, legs bent back at an unnatural angle. "Put up a pretty good fight. Better than you'd expect. Till I clubbed her on the back of the head."

"You sound as if you admire her."

Manly paused, uncommonly reflective for once. "I admire conviction. I may not agree with her. She was, after all, part of the conspiracy to kill helpless children. But I think she at least believed in what she was doing. And she didn't give up easily."

"I thought you weren't going to… advance the program this early on."

"She was getting away. And she'd seen me. I had no choice."

No choice, his friend thought, because you bungled everything in your usual stupid way.

"Do you think she's dreaming?" Manly asked.

"I don't know. If you'd like, I'll club you over the head. Then you can report back to me."

"Pass. Still, she seems so peaceful."

"Not as peaceful as she'll seem… after you finish."

"True," Manly said, nodding. "All too true." He reached out with his hands, his fingers curled like claws.

"You're going to strangle her? Like the others?"

Manly's face twisted around until, finally, it resolved itself in a strange sort of smile. "Yes," he said, as his hands clenched her throat. "Like the others." Three Bad Faith

The Gospel According to Daniel Be careful what you wish for, says the old axiom, which I believe is actually derived from St. Augustine. You may get it. Wise words indeed.

I had wanted to take the stand in my own defense all along. Although I was intellectually cognizant of my attorney's reasons for advising against it, I still wished for the opportunity. It held an irresistible attraction for me. I fantasized about telling my story with such persuasion and eloquence that the prosecution's case simply melted away. In my mind, a jury might well suspect me when all they heard were the words of my enemies, but once they heard me testify, once they heard my story told from my own lips, they would be unable to see me in any light but positive.

And it was not my plan to dissemble or fabricate. I would tell the story and tell it straight, to adapt the words of Dickinson. I would tell them the good and the bad, but I would tell it with clarity and sincerity. Confession is good for the soul, after all. While we may not be as driven to confession as our Catholic brethren, even an Episcopalian could see the merits, both therapeutic and judicial, in telling the story as it happened, warts and all. I would impress them with my forthrightness. I would dazzle them with my purity.

In retrospect, of course, I recognize this for the hubris that it was. If this were a Greek tragedy with me as the star-and indeed, many of the key elements are present-then my fatal flaw, my downfall, came from the sin of pride. I was in love with myself, my ideas and philosophies, my theological daring and innovation-when I should have been in love with God. I should have trusted Him in all respects instead of trying to do an end run around Him, trying to act as if He weren't really necessary because I was so astonishingly brilliant on my own. I never lost faith, but too much of my faith was tainted, was a bad faith, because it was invested in the spirit of man rather than the Holy Spirit of God.

All of which is easy to say now. At the time, I couldn't see it. I still perceived the opportunity to testify as a positive development. I still thought I could save myself.

How powerfully, unimaginably, stunningly wrong I was would become apparent with the speed and immediacy of a lightning bolt. A bolt, one might say, cast down from the heavens. "How long have you served as a priest?" Christina asked him, sticking faithfully to her notes. Every word, every placement of a question, had been carefully worked out the night before. Served, not worked. Priest, not rector. Establish the length to make the point that he has had successful parishes in the past.

"Thirty-four years," Father Beale replied.

"And how long have you been at St. Benedict's?"

"More than three years. The bishop recommended my transfer, and the vestry accepted the recommendation. The parish had many problems finding a rector after the retirement of a longtime founding priest, and the bishop felt I might be able to get the church back on track."

"Is that what happened?"

"No. Not even close." Father Beale was doing well, Ben thought, watching from counsel table. Good thing. If he couldn't handle himself on these softball questions, there was no hope for what would come later. His witness stand demeanor was good; he seemed cool, poised, and smart, without coming off as pompous. He still had a tendency to overintellectualize-Ben and Christina had coached him to use simple, direct words-but it wasn't so extreme that it seemed arrogant. "From the outset, there was opposition to me and almost everything I did. It got worse, as time progressed, but it was there all along."

"Why do you think that was?"