William Bernhardt - Criminal intent

"She lets you live in a dream world, with your books and reading all the time. You have no idea what it's like to be out in the real world, how hard it is to get by. And then you turn around and do something like this-destroying a treasure others have worked so hard for."

"I know, Father, and I'm really sorry-"

"Sorry is for losers, Ben." He grabbed his son roughly by the collar. "We're leaving." His dark expression left Ben no doubt about what would happen when they arrived home.

His father spun around so fast he almost collided with Father Beale, who was standing just behind them.

Father Beale smiled. "Is there a problem, Edward?"

"I'm afraid so, Father. My nitwit son has broken your stained glass window."

"Yes, I know. I asked him to do it."

Ben's lips parted. What-?

Edward Kincaid's eyes widened. "You asked him to do it?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, there was a flaw in the bottom half of the glass. Has to be replaced. We had to knock out that whole section so it could be repaired."

A line creased Ben's father's forehead. "Couldn't workmen do that?"

"Of course they could. But they would charge for it, wouldn't they? And I think this little indulgence of mine has cost the church quite enough already."

"But why Ben-?"

"Because I couldn't bear to do it myself. Weak, I know. But there you have it. I couldn't, so I asked Ben to help. Which he did. He's a fine boy, you know, Edward. You should be very proud of him."

Ben stared at the priest wordlessly. He didn't know what to say-and thought it best he not try to say anything at all.

His father cleared his throat. "Yes. Well… I didn't know… I didn't realize…" His fists slowly unclenched. He released Ben's collar. The blood began to drain out of his face. "That's different, of course."

"How is the work on the parish profile coming, Edward?"

"Oh, slow. Like all committees. It takes about three meetings to write one sentence."

"I appreciate your hard work. If we're going to hire a top-notch curate, we need a strong and appealing profile. Just remember-the most important thing to emphasize is not the physical plant, or the rites practiced, or the plethora of programming. Christianity isn't about a new roof, or pledges, or Wednesday-night supper. It's about helping other people in need. That's the most important thing." He turned his head slightly. "Did you know that, Ben?"

"I do now," Ben said quietly.

"Well, I don't mean to lecture. You know how we priests are once we get wound up. I should probably arrange for the new glass, now that we've got the demolition completed. I just wanted to say hello, Edward, and to thank you again, Ben, for helping me."

"My pleasure," Ben mumbled.

"Oh, and-I'll see you Saturday at nine?"

"Saturday morning?"

Father Beale smiled. "For acolyte class. We should get started right away, I think."

Even though it was wildly inappropriate, given all that had happened, Ben couldn't help returning his smile. "I'll be there." Even after all these years, Ben remembered that day as if it were yesterday. Father Beale took a lot of grief from the vestry for destroying the window, but he never once told anyone what had really happened. When Ben heard that Beale was at odds with the vestry at St. Benedict's, his first thought was-Who is he saving this time?

That was a day everything changed for Ben. His goals and priorities. His sense of what was important. How he should live his life. Father Beale had been an intercessor for him, and many years later, Ben had chosen a career as an intercessor for others. Father Beale had given him a great gift, but the implicit understanding was that Ben would use that gift-would use his life-in a way that mattered.

"Ben?"

He looked up abruptly. "What? Yes?"

Christina stared at him strangely. "You looked as if you were sleeping."

"Oh, no. Just… daydreaming. What is it?"

"What do you think?" She glanced at Father Beale, then took his hand and clasped it firmly between hers. "The jury's back." In the courtroom, Ben thought, no one can hear you scream. He wanted to rear back his head and cut loose with a big one. But Judge Pitcock would not be amused, and it would only make a hideously bad situation all the worse.

He watched as the twelve jurors (the alternates having been dismissed) filed solemnly into the courtroom. They did not look at Father Beale, did not even glance at counsel table. But that was not uncommon, Ben thought, trying to calm himself. Whether it was the influence of television, or just that they'd been working so long they wanted their big moment not to be spoiled, Ben had observed that most jurors tried not to give away the result. At least not this soon. Later, when the verdict was being read out, they would look at Father Beale. If they had acquitted him.

"The defendant will rise."

Ben and Christina and Father Beale all stood. Ben noticed that Beale's knees were shaking, so profoundly that it had to be apparent to everyone.

"Madame Foreperson, have you reached a verdict?"

The middle-aged, somewhat heavy-set woman at the left end of the first row spoke. "We have, your honor."

She passed the all-important piece of paper to the bailiff, who carried it to the judge. Pitcock glanced at it expressionlessly, then returned it to the bailiff. "Proceed."

Madame Foreperson cleared her throat. She's not looking at us, Ben thought, not me, or Christina or Father Beale. She's not looking at us, damn it!

"In the matter of the State of Oklahoma versus Daniel Samuel Beale, on the count of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant…"

Why did they always pause there? Haven't we waited long enough?

"… we find the defendant guilty as charged."

There was a gasp somewhere in the gallery, and a moment later, Father Beale crumbled. Ben wrapped an arm around him, trying to prop him up.

The gallery went crazy. Reporters leaped out of their seats, rushing out of the courtroom so they could switch on their cell phones and report the news. Everyone seemed to be speaking at once. Andrea had her arms stretched out toward her husband. She was sobbing and wailing and looked just as stunned as he did.

"My God, my God…" Beale murmured. Tears appeared in the corners of his eyes.

The sentencing phase was a blur. Both sides called witnesses, but everything Ben did was drowned in the despair that came from too much knowledge. He'd been around long enough to know that if the jury had been inclined to mitigate, they would not have gone for Murder One.

All too soon, they heard once again from Madame Foreperson. "Pursuant to the guidelines set forth in the court's instructions to the jury, we recommend that the defendant, having been found guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree by a jury of his peers, should be sentenced to execution by lethal injection."

"No," Father Beale cried. "My God, no."

"The jury's recommendation will be accepted by the court," Judge Pitcock answered.

Another tumult ensued. "No!" Andrea screamed. She collapsed into her seat.

Amidst the clamor and confusion, the sheriff's marshals appeared. "We'll take custody of the prisoner."

"My God," Beale continued, his eyes wide and unbelieving. "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"

The judge was thanking and dismissing the jury, but Ben didn't hear any of it. Never before had he felt a grown man absolutely crumble into his arms. Beale was like a baby; he couldn't walk, couldn't support his own weight.

One of the marshals inched closer. "I'm sorry. We have to take him back to the jail now."

Christina looked angry enough to tear his eyes out. "Couldn't you give us one minute alone with him?"

"I'm sorry," the marshal said, unblinking. "No."

"Daniel!" Andrea rushed forward, trying to embrace her husband, but one of the marshals held her back while they cuffed their prisoner. It took both of them to hold him upright, but they eventually managed to carry Father Beale away.