Archbishop Schulte will lead a funeral Mass at Our Lady of Mercy, Wednesday morning at 9:00 A.M.
"He's dead." I test the truth on my tongue. "He's dead." Maybe there is a God, then; maybe there are cosmic wheels of justice. Maybe this is what retribution is supposed to feel like. "Caleb," I say, turning.
Everything else passes between us without a single word: that Nathaniel is safe, now; that there will be no sexual abuse trial for him to testify at; that the villain in this drama will never hurt someone else's little boy; that after my verdict, this nightmare will truly be finished.
His face has gone just as white as mine. "I heard."
In the middle of this tiny conference room, with two hours of damning testimony behind me, I feel an unmitigated joy. And in that instant it does not matter what has been missing between Caleb and myself. Much more important is this triumph of news, and it's something to share. I throw my arms around my husband.
Who does not embrace me in return.
Heat floods my cheeks. When I manage to lift my gaze with some shred of dignity, Caleb is staring at Patrick, who has turned his back. "Well," Patrick says, without looking at me. "I thought you'd want to know."
Bailiffs are human fire hydrants: They're placed in the court in case of an emergency but fade into the landscape otherwise and are rarely put to practical use. Like most bailiffs of my acquaintance, Bobby Ianucci isn't too athletic or too bright. And like most bailiffs, Bobby understands he is lower on the feeding chain than the attorneys in the courtroom-which accounts for his absolute intimidation at the hands of Quentin Brown.
"Who was in the courtroom when you brought Father Szyszynski in from the holding cell?" the prosecutor asks, a few minutes into the testimony.
Bobby has to think about this, and the effort is visible on his doughy face. "Uh, well, the judge, yeah.
On the bench. And there was a clerk, and a stenographer, and the dead guy's lawyer, whose name I don't remember. And a DA from Portland."
"Where were Mr. and Mrs. Frost sitting?" Quentin asks.
"In the front row with Detective Ducharme."
"What happened next?"
Bobby straightens his shoulders. "Me and Roanoke, that's the other bailiff, we walked the Father across the room to his lawyer. Then, you know, I stepped back, because he had to sit down, so I stood behind him." He takes a deep breath. "And then ..."
"Yes, Mr. Ianucci?"
"Well, I don't know where she came from. I don't know how she did it. But the next thing, there's gunshots being fired and blood all over the place, and Father Szyszynski's falling out of his chair."
"What happened after that?"
"I tackled her. And so did Roanoke, and a couple of other guys posted at the back of the courtroom, and Detective Ducharme, too. She dropped the gun and I grabbed it, and then Detective Ducharme, he hauled her up and took her off to the holding cell in cuffs."
"Did you get shot, Mr. Ianucci?"
Bobby shakes his head, lost in his memories. "No. But if I'd been, like, five inches to the right, she could have hit me."
"So would you say the defendant was very careful with how she aimed that weapon at Father Szyszynski?"
Fisher stands beside me. "Objection."
"Sustained," Judge Neal rules.
The prosecutor shrugs. "Withdrawn. Your witness."
As he returns to his seat, Fisher approaches the bailiff. "Did you talk to Nina Frost the morning before the shooting?"
"No."
"In fact, you were busy doing your job-maintaining the security of the courthouse, and dealing with prisoners-so you had no need to watch Mrs. Frost, did you?"
"No."
"Did you see her pull the gun out?"
