In God's House (17 page)

Quinlan shook his head. “Jean-Paul, we’re old friends and I have immense respect for the reverence in which you hold the secret archives of this diocese as well as your resolve not to turn over the files. But we’re going to have one of our priests in prison soon. We don’t need two of our priests in jail. You may well go to jail yourself for contempt of court if you defy the order to produce subpoenaed documents. The judge might even jail the bishop as well. We cannot let any damaging information out of our possession.”

“How could the files of thirty-one other priests be relevant to a case involving just Father Francis?” Moroux asked.

The monsignor was looking directly at me. It seemed he wanted to hear from me. “Monsignor, hypothetically, if a situation existed where this diocese – people like yourself in the chancery, even the bishop – knew about Dubois’s problem with little boys before the first complaints from Amalie came in, if there had been similar situations in other parishes and the response of Dubois’s superiors had been inadequate – so inadequate as to constitute negligence – then Chaisson scores big in court. And if Chaisson can show through the use of these other priests’ files, and testimony, that there have been other priests in the diocese with similar sexual problems, and that the method of handling their problems and Dubois was so similar as to be identical, he will say that there exists a pervasive pattern of neglect and disregard for the welfare of children in this diocese. If he can argue that priests who are known sexual predators have been assigned and reassigned to places where they have access to children, then Chaisson raises the stakes so high that it’s really winner take all. A monetary verdict from a jury could be monumental, astronomical.”

“Then, Renon, you’re saying you agree that I have to – as they say – ‘sanitize personnel files’.”

In one of the worst moments of my life I responded, “Yes, sir.” I knew I had violated every ethical, moral and legal standard I had ever believed in and had sworn to uphold. I was so exhausted, completely drained, that I just gave into the two strong willed lawyers who were advocating that Monsignor Moroux destroy material that might be the subject of a court subpoena.

Quinlan said, “Monsignor, Kane Chaisson is taking a broad swing at the Church, trying to knock it out. When we finish with a little clerical housekeeping, Chaisson is going to hit nothing but air. He’ll be shadow boxing.”

District Attorney Sean Robinette was in jeans, a plaid shirt and cowboy boots, standing at the end of a pier off the backside of the Levee Bar, tossing pieces of bread to fish circling under the pilings. I stopped at the bar and picked up a long-neck beer before walking to the deck to greet him.

“I think you need a hook to catch fish,” I said.

Without turning around, Sean said, “Sometimes a net is better.”

When Sean did face me, he did not extend his hand. Professional and personal formalities were not part of our relationship.

“Wow, ya look like shit, Ren! What happened to you?”

“Just tired, Sean. Beat to hell.”

Sean moved to sit on a high stool as did I. He chucked all the bread to a school of bream below.

We had battled hard more than once and our friendship had stayed strong. He would take me fishing and make me do all the work on his boat, always promising some favor in return that never materialized. Once we sent a jury out at mid-morning on a case that required a unanimous vote for a verdict either way. As we sat in Sean’s office at noon, he punched his speakerphone and dialed the bailiff’s office. “Let’s see what the jury ordered for lunch,” he said.

A deputy picked up the phone and told us, “We got an order for eleven cheeseburgers, eleven fries and eleven Cokes.”

Sean laughed. “You’ve won. Got a hung jury. One of those jurors is so mad at the others that he or she will not even eat. You know something is wrong when I gotta have twelve to win but you only need one to keep from losing.”

I knew Sean liked me as much as I liked him. We respected each other, and I believed that somehow we could get through the Dubois case with our relationship intact.

He caught me off guard a bit when he cut to the chase quickly.

“I am giving you notice that I’m going to grand jury. It will be this week or next. The next couple days, I hope. You’re not going to make me extradite him, are you? I don’t want any John Wayne crap like what happened in the Baton Rouge airport. I’m going to get him for life sentences, but there isn’t going to be any parent shooting him in an airport. He’s gonna die of old age in prison.”

I understood the reference. The prosecutor in Baton Rouge had recently refused to file criminal charges against a man who murdered a pedophile who had abused his son. The shooting happened at the airport while TV news cameras were filming the criminal’s return to Louisiana in the custody of policeman. The Baton Rouge DA’s action in that case made it open season on child molesters in Louisiana.

“Okay, Sean. No extradition. No media circuses. I’ll bring him back. You tell me in advance. I’ll go get him and bring him back the day after the indictment comes down and we can arraign him then.”

“Will you be ready to plead him guilty at arraignment?”

“To what?”

“To life.”

“Look, you need twelve jurors to get him. All I need is one juror who won’t order lunch. If I hang the jury, then we will be doing it all again, having a new trial. How many times you want to do this? Of course I’m not going to plead him out to life. For now, I’m going to plead insanity. We’ll go to trial before I throw him away for life.”

“Ren, you can tell your colleagues, Jon Bendel and Joe Rossi,
that I don’t want any more phone messages from them. I won’t even take a call from the Pope about this Father Dubois business. I asked to see a lawyer who represents Dubois. They sent you. I’ll deal with you and no one else.”

I just nodded. I was exhausted.

Sean switched gears again and doubled back on me. “I’ve talked to the kids.”

I stared at the sunset.

“I know you know, Ren. You know what happened. Out of the priest’s mouth it might sound awful, but when you hear the boys tell it, it twists your guts.”

I had nothing to say, but my guts were twisting too.

“Fold your hand, Ren.”

I smiled and shook my head, and touched his arm as I turned to leave. “I never fold. I always ante-up, make the bet until the last card is played on the poker table. You know that.”

“Living that way is going to be the end of you one day.”

The sun was sinking toward the water line and the sky glowed over the swamp as I made my way back down the levee to my car. Just hearing Sean talk about the kids was all it took to twist my guts.

Between the cathedral and the chancery, street lamps flickered and illuminated an old bearded fellow walking near the angel fountain, carrying a sleeping bag and a rucksack, heading in the direction of the Saint Augustine Cemetery behind the great church. He stopped at the fountain, put his belongings on the ground, cupped his hands and splashed water on his face. After shaking the water off, he whistled and a shaggy puppy came running out of the cemetery, wagging its tail and jumping up on the man's leg. He stroked the dog and then the two of them sauntered off toward the tombs.

I waited a moment and then walked onto the plaza, past the fountain, trying to see where the drifter had gone. As I reached the edge of the graveyard, I saw Monsignor Jean-Paul Moroux through a large window in the bishop's office. There was only lamp light in the room. Moroux was backlit, hunched over, looking like a gargoyle in profile, his shaggy hair hanging over his face like a mane.

The door to the kitchen of the Old Bishop's House was unlocked. From there I made my way along the dark corridor connecting the house to the chancery. When I reached the doorway of the bishop's office, I saw Moroux standing over a large plastic trash can. The noise from its paper-shredding machine blocked out everything else. High, neat stacks of files covered the bishop's desk, the leather sofa and part of the
carpeted floor. I stood watching Moroux, waiting for him to take a break, not wanting to startle him. He was wearing dark shoes, dark socks, black trousers and a white sleeveless tee-shirt. There was a tattoo on his upper left forearm, a shield or coat of arms.

Moroux caught me staring. He turned off the shredder and slapped the machine, saying, “A gift from Tommy Quinlan, delivered this afternoon. Top of the line, I think.”

He realized I was not looking at the machine, but at his arm. He touched the tattoo, smiled and said, “An African shield. Mountain tribe. Got it near the Sorbonne when I was studying in Paris. I was on a three-year scholarship to study philosophy. Spent it all studying African art, culture and history. Got drunk and tattooed. Yes, I've been drunk and tattooed in Paris.”

I must have looked surprised, if not shocked. Moroux's hair was a lot longer than I had realized and it hung down over his face, almost covering his eyes until he pulled it away.

He laughed. “Yes, Renon. In Paris I listened to jazz and lived a student's life. Almost stayed there, the way all of us almost do something in life we should have done.”

“You really studied in France?”

“I studied everywhere. The old bishop who was here believed in education and he had more than enough priests without me. There used to be so many priests that the average church parish had two, the larger parishes three. The old bishop sent me anywhere I wanted. I studied in Rome and Ireland too. In Ireland, I collected some blackthorn walking sticks and downed pints; in Paris, it was Armagnac, jazz and tattoos. Rome was… Rome was… a place without a soul. I got nothing from Italy. It's a belligerent country, so proud of wonderful things that happened hundreds of years ago in the arts that they haven't painted a building since. In Ireland, they educate with a Socratic discourse. In Paris, everything is in the libraries rather than the professors' heads. In Rome, everything is hidden, nothing is learned – maybe nothing is known.”

I took a seat and, pointing to the stacks of files, said, “Are any of these men innocent?”

“No one's innocent. It's all about degrees of guilt, isn't it? Guilt and shame. No one's been innocent since Eden. We're all guilty and we feel our guilt and shame in proportion to degrees of discovery, what others learn about us. The more others know of our sins, character defects or failings, the greater our guilt and shame. We're strange creatures, no? It does not seem to matter to us that God knows everything we've done. We respond more strongly to what fallible humans know and think of us. Isn't that what I'm doing tonight? Eliminating any chance that the guilt and shame recorded in these files will be discovered by other fallible human beings?”

“I don't know what you're doing or what you're destroying.”

“No, you don't. I am the only person who will ever know what was in these files. Our bishop only reads golf magazines. When I die, a lot of people's guilt and shame will die with me.”

Moroux took a hit from his newly lit cigarette and resumed shredding files.

I stepped out to the receptionist's desk and dialed home. “Hi, Kate.”

“God, where are you? Where have you been? I know, I know… I could have found you by calling Mo. The days of me having to talk to a secretary to find my husband are over, Ren. Did you forget it was your birthday yesterday?”

“No. No, Kate. My birth—” I couldn't finish the word. I shakily sat in the secretary's swivel chair. Kate must have heard my hard breathing.

“Ren, you okay?”

“My birthday? I didn't even remember my own birthday?”

“The kids had balloons, presents, cards, cake. Your dad was here with pictures of you from birthdays long ago. Sasha refused to go to her room last night. She slept on the sofa with your gifts, waiting for you to come home. Are you still out of town? There
was something on TV about the priest stuff last night and again today. Kane Chaisson was on.”

I felt a wave of nausea rolling through me. I had always loved my birthday, especially after the kids got old enough to give me silly gifts. “My birthday? How old am I?”

“The kids were really upset. Sasha was furious. It's not funny.”

I knew it was not funny. All I could say was, “Later. I'll be home later. I'm at the chancery. It might be late.”

“Good. I want to talk to you. We need to talk, Ren.”

“Yeah. Me too. I want to talk. Kids okay?”

“Other than being upset over you missing your birthday yesterday, they're great. Everyone's fine, but I'm worried about you.”

“Well, the phone's not good.”

“No. I'll see you later. I do love you, Ren.”

“Uh huh. Me too.”

I'm now thirty-seven, or am I thirty-six
? I thought. I was so tired. Just this morning I had woken up in New York. That seemed ages ago.

The sound of the shredder stopped. Moroux walked over, took a chair and grabbed the pack of smokes.

“Monsignor, when I drove up I saw an old man going into the cemetery. To sleep, I think.”

“With a dog?”

“Right.”

“Every night he's there. For months now. They say he was a priest somewhere once. They say he carries a breviary, a book priests read every day.”

“An ex-priest?”

“There's no such thing as an ex-priest in canon law.”

“I want to talk about Dubois,” I said. “I'm going to tell you straight out that the things I said today when we were talking with Quinlan and Bendel about sanitizing these files were not hypothetical, Monsignor. I now know that Dubois was having sex
with little boys dating back to the seminary and that people in this chancery, including you, have had knowledge of his criminal behavior from the beginning. Over twenty years.”

Moroux walked around the desk and sat heavily in the bishop's chair. I could hardly see him over the stacks of files on the desk.

“Is all that other stuff about Father Francis going to come out in this case? Isn't this case just about Amalie?”

“Sooner or later – sooner, I'd bet – you and others are going to be ordered by a court to give sworn testimony in depositions, to tell the truth about everything.”

Moroux coughed. “The truth about Amalie and Father Francis's time there will not be any problem. Of course, I will answer everything truthfully about that. What I don't understand is how the scope of inquiry can be this broad, how it can go beyond Amalie, into his past as a priest of this diocese. What Father Francis did in Amalie ought to be the sole issue, right?”

“What you and the bishop and others knew or should have known about Dubois before you assigned him to Amalie, and what you and others in the chancery did or did not do to prevent injury to those children in Amalie, will clearly be relevant in the Rachou case. My bet is Chaisson will get all of that into evidence easily. It seems to me, from what I learned from Father Dubois, that your negligence and that of Bishop Reynolds is the kind of negligence the law calls willful and wanton – criminal.”

“Well…”

“May I have a copy of Dubois's file?”

“I'm sorry. Jon Bendel specifically told me no one could look at these files.”

“I don't want Dubois's file sanitized – shredded. I don't want you removing anything from Dubois's file, Monsignor. Can you promise you will keep his file intact?”

Moroux nodded his head, slowly. “I will remove nothing. I will not even look at his file. You're his attorney. I will follow your instructions. I'm sorry I cannot let you look at the file now.”

“This just gets crazier every day. The diocese wants me to represent him, but I cannot see his personnel file.”

“That is how it is. But let me ask you about something we didn't cover this afternoon that has been bothering me since I pulled all the records from the secret archives. It's bothered me all evening.”

“What's that, Monsignor?”

“We-ell, suppose I am ever put in a position where I am asked if I destroyed documents. What do I say?”

I was too tired to think. I shrugged.

“Lie? Do I?”

I shrugged again, then I said, “Quinlan and Bendel weighed in that what you are doing tonight is not illegal. I don't know. Morally, this is obviously way across the line. Is it technically obstruction of justice? Even if it's technically legal, no one would ever understand a monsignor shredding evidence under subpoena.”

As Moroux walked me to my car, he brushed his hair straight back over his head and I could see his full face again and the obvious pain in his eyes. When I was in the car with the motor running, Moroux was still standing next to my car door. I pushed a button and the window came down.

Moroux sighed. “Renon. The reason I asked to see you this evening is this… Well, you see, I have to be involved in this. I have no choice. I've been involved a long time. I must do these things, but you don't have to be involved. I think things may get very bad. If there is such a thing as karma, then what is going to be visited on the diocese, maybe the entire Church, is not something I would wish on anyone. You did not cause any of this and you don't have to be part of it. I wanted to kind of give you permission to withdraw before anyone knows you are involved. We could find another lawyer for Father Francis.”

“You'd find a lawyer who would tell Dubois to plead guilty to a life sentence so he'd kill himself?”

“No. I swear I would not let that happen. I just wanted to offer you a chance to… you know, to take your leave of the proceedings before they begin. You can go quietly now. Once it starts, I don't think it will be quiet again for a long time.”

“Thank you. I will remember you offered this. I believe I'm gonna go the distance.”