Galatians 5:1
Wednesday 12th December: "Remain standing. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God? . . ."
Bishop Patrick O'Malley looked around the faces in the packed courthouse. He recognised a number of church members but few friends. Seb was there, he noted.
He answered the clerk to the court in the anticipated fashion. "I do."
Then he sat.
Bishop Patrick had thought long and hard about this moment and had dreaded it. Wide eyed with worry and trembling just a little, he felt like a bullock in the slaughter pen. The bishop glanced at Trish Hartnett in the dock. She wore a plain black dress. No jewelry. No accessories. Just the dress. The lawyers had probably told her to dress down. There were the women on the jury to consider.
But the lawyers had been sorely deluded if they for one moment thought Trish would cut a more sympathetic figure in a little black dress. Trish's mane of auburn hair, her green-grey eyes, her ice cool expression, all in stark contrast to the black dress. Black looked good on any woman. But, "With Trish in her fiery mood," thought the bishop, "I could be looking at Lucretia Borgia or Matahari in the flesh."
Lawyer Fieldson got to his feet. Trish Hartnett bit the flesh of her lip. The bishop tore his gaze from the mesmeric figure of the accused. The lawyer was saying something.
"Bishop, I am right in supposing that you know the defendant?"
The bishop nodded. "Yes. I do indeed know Mrs Hartnett."
"You also know, or rather knew, the deceased, Mr Robert Young?"
Again the bishop nodded. "Yes. I did."
"And would you, Bishop, have reason to implicate the accused, Mrs Hartnett, in the murder of Mr Young?"
The lawyer's slight unprepossessing frame made him appear benign, his tone almost diffident. But his pale eyes told another tale. His eyes were ice cold with distant foreboding.
The Assistant District Attorney climbed to his feet almost casually, as if there were all the time in the world. "Objection Your Honor."
Bishop Patrick shifted his head slightly to look at the judge. Flanked by the stars and stripes, the judge was a scrawny man, lanky and reflective, like some latterday Abe Lincoln. "Sustained," the man said.
Lawyer Fieldson wrung his hands in contrition like Uriah Heap reborn, and bowed his head before snapping his gaze back to the bishop like a pointer on the scent.
"Of course. I beg your pardon Your Honor. Bishop O'Malley, do you also know the husband of the accused, Mr Sean Hartnett."
"I do," The bishop nodded, his calm demeanor masking a cacophony of emotion.
"Of course you do Bishop. How well precisely?"
The bishop grew pale and wiped small beads of perspiration from his forehead. "Very well."
"Very well indeed perhaps. You were lovers?"
If there was anyone in the crowded courthouse who hadn't been paying attention, they were now. You could have heard a pin drop. The bishop knew well enough that he could lie or remain silent. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt Sean.
The bishop fought the instinct to hold his head between his hands. "We were good friends," he said dejectedly.
The judge leaned forward, his deep blue eyes sympathetic. "You may plead the fifth amendment, Bishop O'Malley. But if you do not you must answer the question."
Lawyer Fieldson interrupted. "It's all right Your Honor. I withdraw the question."
The judge looked startled. But not for long. He understood full well what was going on. Fieldson was no fool. Fieldson had established that the bishop was gay without hounding him more than absolutely necessary which might have alienated the jury.
"Be careful Mr Fieldson. You try the patience of this court."
Fieldson stroked his fingers back through his hair, his manner absentminded, almost distracted. "I apologise, Your Honor," he said. Then his questions came in sharp staccato bursts.
"Bishop O'Malley. Would you describe your relationship with the defendant, Trish Hartnett, as cordial?"
"No, I can't say I would," the bishop answered in a weak voice.
"You were enemies?"
"I didn't say that."
"Friends?"
"No, I didn't say that either."
"Had Mrs Hartnett asked you to stop meeting her husband, Sean Hartnett?"
"Yes but I don't see. . ."
"Don't you?" Lawyer Fieldson preened himself, his head up and his breast full, like a cock robin. "I have no further questions at this time, Your Honor."
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