William Bernhardt - Murder One

By the end of the day, the jury had been selected LaBelle predictably removed young females and anyone else he thought might be wobbly on the death penalty. Ben removed older women and people with strong fundamentalist leanings—anyone whom he suspected might never get past the fact that Keri was a stripper with an active sex life. When all the shouting was done, fourteen people remained—a jury of twelve, plus two alternates.

Ben had done the best he could, but he knew this jury was far from ideal. Many of them had come into the courtroom assuming Keri was guilty. He saw them looking at her, catching furtive glances, like children who didn’t want to be caught staring at the scarlet lady. Sometimes, Ben knew, impressions were more important than evidence, and this could well be one of them. As long as they thought Keri was a bad person, a harlot, a temptress, a Jezebel—all negative female stereotypes LaBelle would be reinforcing at every opportunity—Keri didn’t stand a chance.

28

KIRK FELL TO HIS knees and flung himself prostrate across the stone bench that flanked the north side of the prayer garden. His arms cradled his head. He thrashed back and forth, riddled with torment, unable to stop the flow of tears that poured forth from his eyes.

“My God, my God,” he moaned to himself. “What have I done?”

He turned his head up, just enough to see the statuette of St. Francis of Assisi. The saint had kindly eyes; he seemed to look at Kirk sympathetically, as if he truly cared about him, as if he shared the torment that wracked Kirk’s soul. St. Francis loved the little animals, right? Would he love Kirk, too? He felt like an animal, torn and battered, barely surviving from one day to the next, isolated from everyone he ever knew or … loved.

He tossed his head back, peering upward, like a wolf howling at the moon. The reminders of his sins were everywhere, all around him. Sins of commission, sins of omission. The first sin was perhaps the worst, but certainly that was forgivable, wasn’t it? The second sin was an atrocity, but given what had gone before, what choice did he have? Surely most people—even St. Francis—could understand where he had been, why it had happened. But the third sin—no one could forgive that. Not even God.

He turned his head, peering into the deep-set stony eyes of the saint. Would you forgive me? he wondered. Could you forgive me?

He felt wasted and empty. Is this what it’s come to? Talking to garden figurines? Begging forgiveness from statuary? He was in even worse shape than he had imagined.

“God hears your prayers,” a voice said softly. “He knows you’re suffering and he wants to help you.”

Kirk’s head shot up. Did the statue—?

He relaxed. No miracles this night. The tall bearded man hovering over him was entirely corporeal and all too present.

“I’m Father Danney,” he said. He was wearing a beret, cocked at a jaunty angle. “Can I possibly be of help?”

“Why are you here?” Kirk growled. Don’t be so damn rude, he thought to himself, almost simultaneously, but the deed was already done.

“This is my church,” Danney explained. He didn’t seem put off in the least by the insolence. “I work here at St. Dunstan’s.”

“Kind of late to be out priesting, isn’t it?”

Danney smiled. “Paperwork,” he explained. “It gets the best of us, even in the ministry. And I do like to walk the garden at night.”

“I don’t think you can help me, Father.”

“Why don’t you give me a try?”

“You can’t imagine what I’ve done.” He turned away, unable to meet the man’s glimmering eyes. “I’ve done something horrible.”

“We all have, son.”

Kirk shook his head. “Not like this.”

“You might be surprised.”

“I’ve made a terrible mistake. An unforgivable error. And it’s like I can’t stop somehow. Everything I do, I follow up with something even more terrible. Like I think that might make it better. Might cancel it out. But it never does. It just makes everything worse. Much, much worse.”

Father Danney crouched beside him. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come inside? We could get something warm to drink. Maybe pop open a bottle of wine.”

Kirk looked at him coldly. “Should a holy man be drinking wine?”

“I’m an Episcopalian, son. We love wine.”

Kirk turned away. “I prefer to stay where I am.”

“Well, fine. I adore this garden. Always have. Even after all these years, after so many people I loved have passed away and had their ashes buried here. I still love this place.”

“You’re a flower freak. You’re into the smell of honeysuckle.”

Danney shook his head. “I feel the presence of God here. Don’t you?”

“No,” Kirk said quietly. “Not for a long time.”

Father Danney gently laid his hand on Kirk’s shoulder. “You know, my friend, God knows what you’ve done. And no matter what it was, He understands. And He’s waiting to forgive you.”

“Not this time,” Kirk said, shrugging his hand off. He pushed himself to his feet. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m leaving, Father.”

Danney clasped his arm. “You can’t keep running forever.”

“Watch me.” Kirk gave the priest a hard shove, sending him reeling backward into an azalea. Kirk turned and ran, full out, as hard as he could manage, leaving the meddling holy man far behind.

But not his guilt. Never that. No matter what he tried, no matter what he did to himself, he could never escape that.

He had shoved the priest hard, trying to push him out of his life, out of his mind, but even as he ran, he knew he had not been successful. The man was back in the bushes, but his words remained, haunting Kirk, just like everything else.

You can’t keep running forever, he had said. Because eventually, they’ll find you.

Which was true, Kirk knew, even as he tore down Seventy-first. Eventually they would find him.

Unless he made it impossible for them to find him. For anyone to find him.

But that wasn’t the worst thing the priest had said. That wasn’t what haunted Kirk most, even as he sweated and cried and sent fresh shock waves of pain rippling through his tortured body.

God knows what you’ve done.

That was more than a mere pronouncement. That was a curse. That meant no matter what Kirk did, what pain he caused himself, what torture he endured, it would never make any difference. God would always know.

And so would he.

29

DAY TWO—THE SIEGE Continues, Ben thought, as he left the parking garage and headed toward the county courthouse. As usual, a throng of reporters were lying in wait; as soon as he approached they surrounded him, blocking his way, forcing him to push past them just to get inside. The minicam lights were on him every step of the way as the reporters tossed out questions one after another.

“How do you think the case is going for you?” one of the reporters shouted above the fray.

“The Rules of Professional Conduct discourage lawyers from giving public statements regarding pending criminal actions.”

“District Attorney LaBelle gave a press conference this morning.”

Ben’s lips pinched together. “No comment.”

Another reporter inched forward. She was female and, if he wasn’t mistaken, one of Christina’s buddies, not that that was doing him any good this morning.

“Do you think your client will be able to overcome her past life?”

Ben looked at her levelly. “I think she already has.”

“Don’t you think it will be hard to get people to listen to Keri Dalcanton’s story when there’s so much public antipathy toward strippers?”

Ben shrugged. “People don’t like reporters, either. But they still listen to you every night at six and ten.”