In God's House (2 page)

“Renon, here's my card. My home number is on the back. You may want to talk with me one day. Don't call my office.”

I know my expression telegraphed confusion.

“I think at some point you're going to want to talk to someone. All I can tell you now is this. I'll never lie to you.”

Fumbling with the card and jamming it in my coat pocket, I said, “Okaaay. I… I will remember. Sister, can I ask ya… what the hell was Joe Rossi doing in that room?”

“Odd, no? Rossi raises a lot of money for the diocese. The bishop trusts him. What did you think of the meeting?” she asked.

“The lemon pound cake was the best part.”

“Yeah, you're right,” she laughed. “Cake can't lie.”

The tiny birds that roosted in the tall cedars in Vatican City swirled in the blue-black, pre-dawn sky. Local lore had it that these birds picked the thorns from Christ’s head on Calvary, and then followed Saint Peter to Rome. Monsignor Jozef Majeski had heard the legend of the birds and thorns, but he had heard stranger things from gypsies near his home village in Poland. He knew superstition was intermingled with most religions.

As a young boy, Jozef had had a calling from Christ. It was a clear voice he heard in his heart. All he ever wanted to be was a simple parish priest. Majeski had little in common with priests in the Vatican who were ambitious careerists.

On the day Jozef’s friend was elected Pope, the pontiff’s first telephone call had been to Jozef at his country parish in their homeland. His old friend opened by saying, “Jozef, I think we are in real trouble now. Can you come to Rome to be with me?”

“Come to Rome for how long?” Jozef asked.

“Pack everything, Jozef. You will serve this life sentence with me, my friend,” the pontiff had said with a trace of laughter in his voice.

The next day Jozef was at the Holy Father’s side. He never returned to his homeland except when the pontiff traveled there. No one was closer to the Pope than Jozef. His elegant apartment adjoined the papal quarters.

The pontiff, the man Jozef referred to simply as “my friend,”
was fast asleep in his own apartment. Jozef sat by an open window, enjoying a cigarette, a French Gitanes made of black tobacco, one of two he allowed himself each day. Late at night, as he sat at this same window, smoking, he sometimes strained to hear music in the distance. He loved jazz, but he could never seem to find the right place to listen to decent music in Rome.

This morning Jozef would risk upsetting his friend in the same way he had done many times before. The evening before he had turned off the alarm clock in the Pope’s sleeping chamber and advised the nuns not to bring breakfast until he rang for it. He would let the Pope sleep in. The pontiff would likely not have time to celebrate Mass in his private chapel and Jozef knew his friend would be unhappy about that. But Jozef would simply wave his hand, shrug, and say, as he always did, “God will look past.”

The two of them had been at the Pope’s summer residence, Castel Gandolfo, the past two weeks, but it had not been a holiday. The pontiff had worked round the clock, as he always did, relentlessly pushing himself without rest, disregarding the abdominal pain that had dogged him ever since the assassination attempt.

Inside the Vatican, the subject of the Pope’s health was often discussed among the cardinals, if in coded ways. The Holy Father himself was far more troubled by the tremors in his hands, confiding to Jozef that he worried he had become a caffeine addict. Sister Margarita, a Polish nun who attended to the kitchen, poured cup after cup of powerful espresso for the Pope all day long.

On the previous evening, Majeski and the pontiff had talked late into the night. Though a young man still, the Holy Father drove himself like an old man who believed he was running out of time. He wanted to plan an extensive trip to the forgotten continent, Africa, and there were those in the Curia that opposed the idea. As he went off to his room that night, after a last cup of espresso and a glass of warm milk, he said to his friend in their native language, “Time, Jozef. Tonight we pray for time, that we have enough time.”

As tired as he was, the Holy Father had insisted they return to Rome for Sunday, when a rally of thousands of children from over sixty countries was to fill Piazza San Pietro, the big square fronting Saint Peter’s Basilica. The children would participate in a Mass and sing in concert before and after the liturgy. All of the countries would have troupes attired in traditional costumes, arranged in one choir. The children would bring traditional altar offerings from their culture.

Jozef had counseled him against returning to Rome because of the heat wave gripping the city. His concern was that the hours on the outdoor altar in high temperatures would pose a danger to the Pope, draining his friend, who was already ailing. But the pontiff could not be persuaded. The Pope would not miss the day of the children.

Jozef knew how unhappy his friend had been in childhood. He had known more death than joy as a child, losing his mother, then his only sibling not long afterwards, and having his father die before he finished school. The Pope had grown old early, forced to give up the things of childhood before he really experienced them. Jozef believed that, above all else, his friend valued and celebrated the innocence and absolute state of grace that exists only in children.

As dawn approached the Holy City and the Pontiff slept, there was not a hint of there being any clergy abuse crisis looming on the horizon. In the past all claims of clergy abuse had always been buried in the Vatican along with other secrets of the church.

I did not return home from the Old Bishop’s House for the picnic planned with Sasha and Kate. Instead I rushed to my office to begin researching criminal procedural and sentencing statutes for the case involving Father Dubois. I was particularly interested in the procedural and legal burden involved with a plea of insanity, for my instincts told me this was where the case was headed.

The conference area of my office was littered with files needing my attention: a big case involving a helicopter crash, a client who had been paralyzed as a result of a vehicular accident, a stack of files on criminal defendants, and other cases in which I represented cops, including a police chief. My income was top bracket, but it was all earned as I sometimes worked around the clock.

I had also represented poor clients for no fee, pro bono, and many of them had in fact paid me in whatever way they could. A greens keeper at a municipal golf course brought me sacks of golf balls fished out of water hazards, a hunter turned up with
ready-to
-cook ducks and venison sausage, a farmer delivered eggs and free-range chickens to Kate at our home. I had once helped a group who wanted to protect a cemetery where their relatives were buried in unmarked graves from being bulldozed. They held a barbecue to raise money for my fees, but when the proceeds fell short of even covering the cost of the event, I reached in my pocket and made up the difference. All cases were the same to me.

I pushed all the current files aside and soon the conference
table was covered with criminal procedure volumes and case law, all relating to the priest I’d not met.

I telephoned Kate sometime after dark, offering apologies. She listened, said nothing and hung up.

When I did get home at midnight, I went directly to the guest cottage. I slept there often and had almost lived there at times in the past. The children had been told I stayed in the cottage when I needed to work late. There was some truth to that, but more often than not I stayed there for other reasons.

I was up early Thursday and doing my best to avoid Kate when I heard her bounding up the steps of the cottage. She burst into the living room, wanting an explanation for me missing the picnic with her and little Sasha the previous afternoon. I told her every detail about the luncheon at the Old Bishop’s House and the case involving Father Dubois, and how I had spent the preceding afternoon and evening at the office, researching the parameters of such a case, the insanity defense, possible sentences for various offenses, and the limitations of expert testimony.

“Are you crazy, Ren? Really? Are you mad? I think there’s something wrong with you if you’re even thinking about defending this priest. Jake is barely older than those boys. Sasha is… Christ, let the Church deal with its own problems. I’m sure the bishop knows a lot of lawyers. Why doesn’t one of those lawyers defend this priest? I’ll tell you why – because they’re not crazy, that’s why.”

“It may not be so simple. Obviously the children are victims, and their families. Every Catholic who has ever received sacraments from this priest is a victim too in a way. Maybe even the bishop and diocese are victims. Hell, for all I know this priest has some serious illness or brain tumor that makes him a victim too. He’s got seventeen child victims that I know of. Maybe there’s more. And, ya know, Kate, this priest, no matter how horrible he is… he has rights too.”

“Hell, Ren, dammit. You’re always talking about rights. I think you’d take the Devil’s case and argue he has the same rights as God.”

I glanced at the floor, not wanting to see her face. “I am flying to Boston to see the priest over the weekend.”

“Damn you, Ren, I mean damn you.” Kate looked to the side, picked up a small Lalique glass horse figurine and stroked it gently. “You damned well knew I’d invited Sally and Tom and their kids for the day Saturday. You swore you’d be here. Yesterday, Sasha had the picnic basket loaded in one of the little boats; fishing poles and her special bait, that concoction of raw bacon and cooked popcorn. She waited by the pond for you till after dark. She wouldn’t come in. She believed you were coming home to picnic like you promised. She’s only five so she still believes in a lot of things – Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and her daddy.”

I reached for her. She pulled away with a lot of strength. “I’m sorry, Kate. I’m a lawyer. This is what I do.”

“No. This isn’t what ya do. This is what ya are. What you’ve become.”

“Kate, please…”

“Ren, you remember that red rocket ship in the children’s park in Baton Rouge? How we used to climb to the top and split a bottle of wine with paper cups when we were first dating in college?”

I nodded.

“Lemme tell ya. I’ve been on that rocket ship for seventeen years and the ride’s getting bumpy. You know, Ren, I’ve been thinking for a long time… thinking maybe you got a part issued to you the rest of us don’t have. Or maybe you’re missing a part that the rest of us do have.”

I tried to make light of the moment. “Oh, Kate, I have all my parts.”

“Really? Ya think? Remember that Mardi Gras in New Orleans when we were on Bourbon Street with the children? When the gunshots started firing, thousands ran for cover. I couldn’t squeeze the kids into that souvenir shop. Everybody was running away, except you, Ren. You were running toward the bullets. You’re always running toward the bullets.”

Kate turned and walked away, heading for the pasture. I watched her from the window in the back door. At first her head was turned to the side, toward a neighbor’s bean field. Then her head turned downward toward the ground. I wanted to go to her, but I was already late for a meeting with Monsignor Jean-Paul Moroux at the chancery offices of the Thiberville diocese.

As I drove toward my appointment with Monsignor Moroux, I asked myself why I was drawn to representing this priest. The truth was simple and something I would never want others to know – vanity and money. I knew this would be one of the most celebrated criminal cases in this part of the state, and possibly even more important than that. Jon Bendel had said it would be the first of its kind in the country and in the history of the Church. I knew it would grab the headlines and be the lead story in television news broadcasts.

I wanted this case for the advancement of my professional career, for the notoriety it would bring me as a lawyer. Financially, the case was a criminal defense lawyer’s dream. Notorious criminal defendants charged with having committed heinous crimes that command newspaper headlines normally have no money to pay legal fees. This criminal defendant was a priest with a wealthy financial guarantor, a Catholic diocese that could pay like a slot machine.

And there was something else. Maybe Jon Bendel and Joe Rossi were right. Maybe the bishop and everyone else in the diocese were innocent and did not deserve to be smeared by a scandal surrounding this criminal priest. Maybe I could be of real help to the priest and the diocese. For the first time in a long time, I felt like a Catholic.

Monsignor Jean-Paul Moroux was waiting for me at the angel fountain outside the chancery. No one else was around. The
monsignor explained there was a conference in session that most diocesan employees were attending and everyone else was excused from work. We sat on the edge of the fountain and smoked, talking about the weather.

Moroux said, “The meteorologist on Channel 2 says the hurricane is gonna hit across the Texas line. TV weathermen are like fortune tellers. Voodoo priests. The Dominicans used to burn people like that at the stake. Well, actually the Dominicans burned everyone at the stake. TV weather is like TV news, a charade. Maybe all of life is just a series of absurd charades. Everything we do. A charade.” He pronounced it “sha-rod”.

The ornate office Moroux led me into was furnished with antiques and framed by large windows overlooking the Saint Augustine Cemetery. “This is Bishop Reynolds’ office, Mr. Chattelrault. He’s rarely here. As vicar general, I play his role most of the time.”

The monsignor exhibited a bad tremor in his hands as he signed the financial guarantee I had prepared that made the diocese responsible for fees and expenses Father Dubois would owe me for defending him.

The air-conditioning system was shut down and it was sweltering as the sun beat on the glass. Monsignor Moroux took off his black jacket, revealing a black bib attached to his white collar, which he removed and tossed on the desk. Underneath, he wore a long-sleeved black tee-shirt. He was perspiring heavily. I removed my coat and loosened my tie.

Then the monsignor picked up a thick folder from the floor and handed it to me. “I made this file for you. And I drew a map of the place where Father Francis is, near Deerfield, New Hampshire. These are the complete dossiers on the eleven children with cases pending. The dossiers were prepared by their psychologist, a Doctor Aaron Kennison. There is only one other set in Thiberville. Jon Bendel has it.”

I felt the weight of the file as I picked it up from the desk. “If
you don’t mind me asking, Monsignor, I’m curious… why was I chosen to defend this priest?”

“Ah, some say the Lord works in mysterious ways.” Monsignor Moroux laughed at his own joke. “Joe Rossi picked you. I don’t know if the Lord could get more mysterious than working through Joe Rossi.”

“What does Joe Rossi have to do with this?”

“Rossi has everything to do with this. In his infinite wisdom, Bishop Reynolds brought Rossi in because it seems our bishop values Joe’s judgment. Rossi talked like he knew you well. You know him, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I know him. I played football with the son of a friend of his. Rossi came to our games, some of our practices. And he got me summer jobs through college. Since I’ve been a lawyer, he’s referred some criminal cases to me, usually drug charges against children of prominent families, things I think Rossi could have fixed himself but apparently didn’t want to fix. The real money stuff, Rossi always sends to his friend, Jon Bendel.”

“There you have it. He did the same thing here. Jonathan Bendel got the diocese as a client and you got the dirty work.”

“Who represents the other ten children?”

“A lawyer named Brent Thomas from Bayou Saint John.”

I shrugged.

“In the first six cases, I think his clients were his cousins. He had a partner, Ricardo Ponce.”

I shrugged again, never having heard of either lawyer.

When the monsignor said, “Have a safe journey,” I felt he was dismissing me. He seemed to be the kind of man who was comfortable dismissing people from his presence. As I started down the long, wide, marble and stone hallway, Moroux accompanied me, still attired in only his tee-shirt and black trousers. As we walked, he pushed the sleeves of his tee-shirt above his elbow and wiped his brow with a starched handkerchief.

When we reached the fountain crowned by a stone angel that stood in the plaza between the chancery and the cathedral, I was
startled by what I saw. Under the great oak next to Saint Stephen’s, a crowd was gathering. There were dogs on leashes, cats in cages, at least one goat, a pet monkey, and a miniature pony wearing a bonnet of flowers.

Making a sweeping gesture, the monsignor said, “Ah, it’s called the blessing of the animals. A ceremony begun by a man who was our bishop before you were born. That bishop carried holy water with him so he could bless livestock in the fields. He never learned to drive as he said he feared facing an animal in the road and having to make the ethical choice of killing the animal or swerving and killing humans.”

“Bizarre,” I said.

“Silly. Some might even say it’s sacrilegious. You know we do worse. We bless fishing boats, football fields, sugar cane crops, even oilfield drilling rigs. It’s all part of what the bishop’s friend and your friend, Joe Rossi, poetically calls the ‘smells and bells’.”

“The smells…?”

“High Mass with incense. Holy water for a monkey. The smells and bells.”