“Where were you on the night of March 9th of this year?”
“That was a Sunday,” Bobby Donahue said.
Robert Keith nodded, his shoulders squared in front of the witness box. “That’s right.”
The chief prosecutor, Julie Gilbert, narrowed her eyes.
“I was in church.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am.”
“Can you tell the court why you remember this so specifically?”
“Once a year we have a joint Sunday-evening meeting, combining the usual men’s Sunday-night gathering with the women’s Wednesday-morning assembly. It’s always the second Sunday in March.”
“What hours were you in church?”
“The service started at five and ran until almost midnight.”
“With a meeting that long I’m assuming people come and go?”
“No. The doors are locked the entire time. Not to keep people in, but to prevent interruption. Our services, particularly that once-a-year meeting, are sacred to us. That’s why I remember the date. These special gatherings are very emotional and interruption breaks the spirit.”
“But the doors could be unlocked. Someone could become ill. People would need to access the facilities. Surely, if a person was careful, he could leave without disturbing you.”
Donahue shook his head. “The sanctuary is self-contained. There are bathrooms at one end. And a small kitchen, too, with an attached nursery. I’m the only one with a key.”
Horrified, Hannah kept her eyes on the file in front of her. She’d heard stories about the infamous white supremacist “church,” but never in this much detail.
“So if someone comes late, say, maybe they have a flat tire, they miss this once-a-year, spiritually enriching meeting?”
“Of course not,” Donahue said. “One of the brethren always volunteers to keep his phone on vibrate for just such emergencies. Members are notified of the number the week before.”
“Then you’d interrupt the meeting to unlock the door?”
The witness remained straight-faced and serious. “Hymns are strategically placed throughout the meeting to allow for any interruptions.”
“Do you remember whose cell phone was on vibrate that night?”
“Matthew Whitaker.”
Hannah recognized the name from the defense’s witness list. The man was slated to be called to the stand next.
“And did Mr. Whitaker notify you of any such calls?”
“Yes.”
“Who called?”
“Kenny Hill.” Of course.
“At what time?”
“Five forty-five.”
The time of the attack, which had been announced during opening arguments, and ad nauseam since, had been established at between seven and ten on the evening of March 9th.
“Did he say why he was late?”
“There’d been an accident on the freeway.”
Glancing at Julie Gilbert, assuming the prosecutor would be writing a note to verify that there was record of a crash on I-17 on the date and at the time indicated, Hannah was disheartened once again. The woman’s pen was still.
There was no guarantee that the accident had been reported to the police, but even a mention of no record could significantly weaken Donahue’s testimony.
Face impassive, Hannah continued to preside objectively.
“What time did you let Mr. Hill inside the sanctuary?”
“At five-fifty-four.”
“At what time did you next unlock the door that night?”
“Just before midnight.”
“And you’re absolutely certain that no one, specifically Mr. Hill, left the sanctuary before then?”
“I’m positive.”
Keith, expensively dressed from his silk tie to the tips of his shiny black wing tips, requested that an order of service be admitted as evidence.
It was recorded. And then the attorney approached his witness.
“Do you recognize this?”
“I do.”
“Please tell the court what it is.”
“The program for this year’s combined service.”
“And what is the date printed at the top?”
Bobby Donahue leaned forward to read it, as though he didn’t already know the answer.
“March 9, 2008.”
Slowly approaching the jury, Keith gave each of them a chance to read more than just the date on the program he held out for them to see. There followed a listing of well-known Christian songs that were slotted to be sung. Scriptures to be read.
A sermon to be heard.
“Tell me, Mr. Donahue, do you log the attendance at these church gatherings?”
“Yes, we do.”
“And did you that day?”
“Of course.”
Keith pulled out another exhibit. Had it admitted. When asked, Ms. Gilbert didn’t object, but she looked as though she wished she could.
“Is this that log?” Keith held a black, leather-bound book open to a page halfway through.
“Yes.”
“And what is the last name on the entry?”
Again Donahue leaned forward. “Kenny Hill.”
“Were you present when Mr. Hill signed this register?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because I offer it personally to every member to sign.”
“Doesn’t that take a long time?”
“Not really. I stand at the door and the brethren sign in before entering the sanctuary. I greet each and every member upon arrival. I make it a point to be accessible to everyone.”
Or did he make it a point to keep everyone firmly under his domination?
Donahue lifted one shoulder slightly. And Hannah shivered. “In Kenny’s case, I remember distinctly because he came late. He signed in alone. On a break.”
Another piece of evidence was admitted. A small envelope. The kind many churches distributed to their members for offerings. This one was signed and dated by Kenny Hill. And then a cancelled check, dated the same day with the same signature was produced.
It had a Monday, March 10th bank stamp on it. All the evidence was circumstantial. When Julie crossed, she’d be able to point out the possibilities of forgery, money dropped off before or after the church service. But if she left the shadow of a doubt in the mind of even one juror, Hill would go free. That was the risk she took when she slapped a capital charge on the case. It was the only charge that required the jury to be convinced beyond the shadow of doubt.
Any other charge would have carried only reasonable doubt stipulations.
The