Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests (39 page)

“Put simply, in the
Dialogue
, the Copernican advocate wins at every mark. Moreover—and greatly complicating the difficulty—the Copernican’s Aristotelian
opponent is shown to be a brainless incompetent, a buffoon—who uses precisely the same arguments that Urban himself used in
discussions with the author all those years ago.

“My uncle, good Fathers, is a stubborn and arrogant man. Yet, it is only fair to say he has been grievously provoked.”

“Well stated, Francesco,” Sinceri acknowledged. “You draw up the case like a noose.”

“As you have cause to know, I wish it were otherwise,” Barberini replied. “Not because I feel the accused is innocent. I regret
to say that, despite my affection for my former teacher, I cannot bring myself to find him so. But I also believe, as do you,
that his conviction may well create for our Church a looming disaster. I know enough of dogma to be wary of it. Even the straightest
road has an unexpected turn somewhere ahead. It may be so in the matter of Copernicus, from whom the accused has taken the
substance of his text. If it is, the cause of the Church will not be served by its conviction and incarceration of the astronomer’s
most eloquent advocate.”

“We thank you for advising us,” Maculano said.

Barberini’s expression remained grave. “I wish, too, I could leave having done no more than underscore the challenge before
you.

“Tomorrow you have a fourth appointment scheduled for testimony by the accused. It will be his last opportunity. On Wednesday,
the day after, at their regular meeting, the Court of Cardinals will fulfill its formal role. The prisoner will attend. His
Holiness has rendered his decision.”

“The affair has reached that point, then.” Maculano exhaled. “We, both of us, owe a great debt to Your Eminence for your supreme
efforts.”

“Thank me for nothing, Fathers. The matter is out of your hands. And out of mine.”

“The accused is charged; the Cardinals will sit to hear his abjuration and deliver sentence?” Sinceri had not been sure whether
to frame the sentence as a statement or a question. The indecision had shown in his voice.

Baberini answered: “All I can tell you with certainty is that at least seven of the Cardinals will attend Wednesday’s session.
I can tell you also that I will not be among them, for the simple and absurdly self-contradictory reason that, in the absence
of a compromise resolution, I cannot bring myself to hold for or against the accused. I can tell you that Borgia will probably
not be there either. Of Zacchia, I remain unsure. Though whether either chooses to appear is of no consequence.

“As to the Court’s proceedings, you each know the law better than I. The heretic, so adjudged by His Holiness, will appear
in the white robe of submission and contrition and be provided the opportunity to enter a written statement, which he may
also read, swearing his renunciation of the heresy and freely accepting any and all penalties the Court may prescribe.”

“These penalties will include… ?” Maculano asked.

“What you will have guessed,” the Cardinal affirmed. “Assuming the judges accept the abjuration, they will follow His Holiness’s
recommendations and condemn the offender to imprisonment within the Holy Office for a term to be sustained at the Court’s
pleasure, plus the performance of associated penances. The entirety of the
Dialogue
will be placed on the Index of forbidden books and prohibited from being read or further published. Should the heretic’s
statement or demeanor, in any way, prove unsatisfactory…”

“It couldn’t be worse,” Maculano muttered harshly. He hurled his cup across the room.

“I agree with you, Father,” Barberini conceded. “It could not be worse.”

____

“H
E IS FREE
.”

Maculano and Sinceri sat over lunch at a prepared table in Maculano’s apartments.

“How can it be?” Sinceri asked in astonishment.

“You’re correct, Father. I exaggerate,” Maculano conceded. “Barberini’s work is with us still. The sentence remains unaltered,
except that Urban has agreed that the venue of incarceration be changed from the cells of the Holy Office to the residence
of the Tuscan Ambassador.”

“Thanks be to God,” Sinceri breathed.

“Thanks be, as much I think, to mortal pride.” Maculano’s lip curled. “Gloating in the completeness of his victory, Urban
feels he can afford to be magnanimous. Even so, Ambassador Niccolini has attempted to press the matter further. He’s asked
His Holiness to pardon the prisoner because of his repentance and his continuing great works of charity, and to permit his
return to Florence. So far Urban has refused, but Niccolini is prepared with a second proposal, under which the sentence would
be limited to a period of five months to be served in the residence of the Archbishop of Siena. For his part, the Archbishop
has already consented to the arrangement. Niccolini has hopes that since this variation involves no repudiation of the conviction
itself, it may yet gain His Holiness’s favor.”

“I pray it will,” Sinceri replied. “For the good it will do the man for what remains of his earthly life.” The prosecutor
looked across at his host. “Our greater cause, the one in which we began, however, remains undone beyond any pretense of resurrection.”

“But a good fight, Carlo. Worth the effort.”

“A needless fight, Fra Vincenzo.” Sinceri’s expression clouded. “The price we pay for a failure of faith.”

“That’s bitterness speaking. You pronounce too harsh a judgment, my friend.”

“Do I?” Sinceri contemplated a slice of bread he held between his fingers. His voice was quiet. “I’ll tell you what I know.
Don’t fear, because it’s very little. Our Faith is what it claims to be, a thing to be believed. As long as we remember that,
for those who choose to accept it, it remains an impregnable bulwark. But when we feel the need to prove our Faith by imposing
on it human logic, we employ a man-made tool that carries with it the pathway to a thousand human errors. Worse, when we then
try to use that flawed concoction to account for the endless subtleties of the natural world, we multiply the chances of error
by another thousandfold.”

Maculano reached across the table to offer his guest a selection of olives. “And still, we have this to be grateful for.”
He smiled. “Though posterity may not forgive us our failure, we may, at least, take comfort in the certainty it will never
remember our names.”

For a moment Sinceri considered the bowl and the words.

At last, the Lord Prosecutor’s expression mellowed. A thin smile came to his lips. “Yes. You’re right, Fra Vincenzo. If it’s
not a sin to regard life too seriously, it is nonetheless surely an impediment to its enjoyment.”

He transferred an olive onto his plate, then placed a second beside it.

BY S. J. ROZAN

I
t had been a hell of a long time since they’d held night court here.

For sure, Murph reflected as he entered the robing room, that was a good sign. It meant things were under control, the crazy
times past. And good riddance. Those years had been tough, gangs duking it out block by block here in town, meth labs at the
end of every country road, the entire county awash in a chaos of drugs and guns. That rats’ nest took some serious cleaning,
some tough talk, and tougher action. But they’d straightened it out. For a while now they’d been living in what Rossi called
a Golden Age, an Era of Order and Peace.

Of course, Rossi couldn’t drink coffee without calling it the Elixir of Life, so his characterizations were suspect. Still,
no one could deny things were better now. Nor could anyone deny that he, Murph, had had a lot to do with it. He was in charge
here, and he’d made that clear as often and as forcefully as he’d had to. He’d instituted new procedures and streamlined existing
ones, not afraid to jettison some of the old ways and, when necessary, the old personnel. He’d gotten objections and whining,
sure. People had their little fiefdoms. They expected to be able to go on indefinitely doing what worked for them, even if
in the larger picture they and their systems were roadblocks, not… what was the opposite of a roadblock? Murph sighed.
You’re getting old, kiddo
, he told himself, groping for the heavy velvet drapes. He pulled them tight, made sure they overlapped to keep light from
leaking out, then flicked the switch.

Why was it, he grumbled as he looked around, that now that things were better, the county peaceful and prosperous, this courthouse
was still a dump? You’d think the town fathers would take more pride. All the place needed was a little paint, a few yards
of new carpet. God knew, enough of his annual income, and everyone else’s, went straight into the town’s coffers. They should
be able to spare a few coins to polish the brass occasionally.

But taking pride, that was always a problem. Me, me, me, everything was self-interest these days. Not that looking out for
you and yours was a bad thing. What depressed Murph was how many people couldn’t see that certain things—like taking pride,
like hard work, like loyalty—weren’t only abstract virtues, they were part and parcel of self-interest. When everyone benefited,
everyone benefited—why was that so hard to understand?

The case they were trying tonight, for example: that’s what it was all about. Another greedy bastard thinking me, me, me.

Murph slid the hangers in the judges’ closet, searching out the smallest robe. Even that one was too big, the way it always
had been. He shrugged into it and examined himself in the standing mirror. He had to admit what was looking back was worse
than it used to be. His skin was getting looser as he got older, and the chicken neck sticking out of the folds was genuinely
comical.

If truth be told, these masses of black cloth, even when they fit, made everyone look like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Of course,
for night court they could have dispensed with them. And with the formal reading of the indictment, people standing when he
walked in, all that. They could have gone with a level of informality unacceptable in these rooms in daylight. But Murph,
who’d been the one to institute night court to begin with back in the crazy days, had understood the need for pomp and tradition.
They put the weight of history and the stamp of legitimacy on the proceedings. It wasn’t exactly Shock and Awe, but it worked.
From the beginning, the night court juries’ verdicts were accepted as legitimate and Murph’s sentences carried out assiduously
and immediately.

Murph sat at the robing-room table and read the paperwork Rossi had given him. Rossi’s fondness for flowery phrases applied,
thank God, only to speech. On paper he came through as precise and detailed, and Murph read what he’d provided with appreciation.
Murph already knew the general outline of the case. Nothing got this far without his active involvement. Only he, after all,
could assign a case to night court. But the indictment laid out the particulars, and the accompanying material included both
sides’ witness lists, their evidence, and an outline of their arguments. Rossi was a terrific clerk. Murph knew he dreamed
of a judgeship, but he was relieved and grateful that Rossi understood it wasn’t going to happen. Murph had given considerable
thought to succession; he couldn’t go on forever. Given the declining rate of night court cases lately, this might even be
his last. He had no intention of resigning his position, but as to his presiding here, he wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t
occur again.

And,
he thought with a crooked smile,
I’ve already lasted longer than a lot of people had predicted.
But eventually he’d be gone, and the man who stepped into his job would have to be a big thinker, like Murph, not a detail
man. He’d have to command respect right from the start, to keep chaos from erupting again.

That, in fact, was the real reason they were holding night court tonight.

Oh, the case was real enough, worthy on its merits. But it could have been dealt with in other ways. It was the men who had
come up in the rotation for the prosecution and defense that had made up Murph’s mind to bring this case to trial.

For the prosecution, Cameron. A dedicated man, hardworking and loyal, but lacking in imagination. Actually, he had enough
to see himself in Murph’s job, Murph knew that. But not to truly understand what it would mean. It was on Jefferson, who’d
be representing the defendant, that Murph’s eye was trained.

And tonight’s was a terrific case, perfect for what Murph needed. Leopold, the weasel in the defendant’s chair, was guilty
as sin, in Murph’s personal, and highly informed, opinion. If Jefferson managed to convince the jury there was any doubt and
they let Leopold go, Jefferson would come across as a golden-tongued genius. If not, this loss wouldn’t stain his reputation.
His willingness to take the case had already impressed people with his sense of fair play.

And as a bonus, both men were quick and efficient. That was vital. Night court, from the beginning, had been limited to three
hours, strictly enforced. An hour for each side to present its case and rebut the other guy’s, a half hour for jury deliberations,
a half hour for Murph’s bench rulings, the sentence, and general cocking around. They started at one a.m. and were out by
four. Inviolable, and they all knew it. It worked, too. Cases were argued, verdicts rendered, and sentences passed and executed
well within their time limit. Murph sometimes thought it was a pity the day guys couldn’t be here to take lessons.

Speaking of which, it was one on the nose, and here was Rossi, opening the door.

Murph took his seat on the bench, after which the assembled multitudes, who had been bidden by Rossi to stand, sat also. Not
that they were all that multitudinous: night court didn’t allow spectators. The only people here were directly connected with
the case. The attorneys, the witnesses, Rossi, the guards, the jury. And the defendant. Murph watched Leopold squirm. The
guy looked pale. Well, he ought to. He was in big trouble.