In God's House (7 page)

The hairless heads and hollowed eye sockets of twelve dead men stared into the vestibule of the chancery building of the Roman Catholic Diocese of Thiberville, Louisiana. The bronze busts of long-departed popes, mounted on polished marble plinths, stood like sentries around the semicircular stone and glass antechamber that opened to the hallway as wide as a highway. Everything in the building was cold: granite, marble, brick, tile and glass. The hard surfaces made the building an echo chamber, and the slightest sound carried the length of the corridor. It was more like a Pharaoh’s tomb than an office building, complete with its own buried sarcophagus – a hidden vault containing the secret archives of the diocese.

Monsignor Jean-Paul Moroux, vicar general of Thiberville, walked the long hall as he did every weekday morning after celebrating the six o’clock Mass at Saint Stephen’s Cathedral next door. As always, he was the first person in the building. The echo of his wooden-soled shoes striking the polished marble floor repeated like rifle shots.

After turning on the coffee machine, Moroux pulled the rubber band off the morning newspaper and loaded it onto his hand, cocking his fingers like a pistol. He fired his missile at one of the portraits, hitting a long-dead bishop square on the nose. “Bull’s eye,” mumbled the monsignor.

Monsignor Moroux was the number-two man in the diocese,
but he had no desire to be bishop. He relished the perceived power he held, but wanted none of the public duties required of a bishop. That made him an oddity, and he knew it.

Ever since Calvary, when men had cast dice at the foot of the cross, gambling for the clothes of Christ, priests had gambled and played politics for the chance to wear the robes of a bishop. But not Monsignor Moroux. In his experience there were three kinds of priests: those who considered themselves to have true vocations, a calling from God; those who became priests because it gave them a prestige that would have otherwise eluded them; and those who viewed the work as a career rather than a vocation and strived for advancement.

The men who believed they had been called to the priesthood by God lived in their higher selves and worked in poor church parishes in unselfish ways. They were few. Most who studied for the priesthood were recruited during the extensive campaigns conducted at Catholic schools around the dioceses, or were pushed into the religious life by their parents, or else were motivated by guilt or other things better worked out in a psychiatric environment.

As Moroux had never had an honest conversation with another priest, he did not know if he was the only empiricist in the priesthood; the only one who believed in nothing. Not the Church, not God, nothing. On occasion he exhibited the rare talent of being both a cynic and a comic at the same time, but few saw those sides of him as he had long ago stopped socializing. He had been apprehended for drunk driving a number of times, and though he never been charged by the police, and had instead completed two different alcohol rehabilitation courses in out-
of-state
clinics, he had now stopped drinking in public.

Moroux once said he felt knowledge had taken up all the space in his brain that he needed for thinking, and all he had done for the last thirty years was recite knowledge in the place of experiencing and expressing original thought.

He considered himself against literacy, once saying education
and technology had polluted civility in its purest form, placing the human equation in a negative balance. The monsignor admired primitive civilizations that were not encumbered by formal education or ritualized religion; he respected people who devised their own superstitions and believed in magic in place of miracles. It was his belief that in such societies no secrets passed into the grave as the elders shared all they had learned with younger tribesman before their demise. In Western civilization, he knew the opposite occurred, that every generation buried their secrets. In his view, ignorance allowed the intellect to breathe whereas knowledge suffocated the mind. Such notions would surely have been considered odd by those who knew him well, but he had never allowed anyone to know him well.

Two young lawyers entered the monsignor’s office shoulder to shoulder. On the right was Brent Thomas from Bayou Saint John, a cousin of Mrs. Falgout’s. Accompanying him was his former law-school classmate Ricardo Ponce, from Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

Brent Thomas was ingratiating, asking Monsignor Moroux if he remembered that years ago he had taught him religion in the Catholic high school in Bayou Saint John. Moroux pretended to remember but in truth he remembered few people, made it a point not to invest enough of himself in anyone, in case knowing them might constitute a relationship.

Brent Thomas had a smooth, feminine face, dainty features and small hands. Ricardo Ponce looked menacing. He was balding and allowed the few remaining hairs on his skull to grow long. A deep scar ran down the left side of his face from the corner of his eye to his jaw.

Ponce laid a tall stack of legal papers in the center of the desk. “Monsignor, these are legal petitions we are prepared to file on
Monday morning. Supporting documentation for each claim is also included. These lawsuits seek eighteen million dollars from the diocese on behalf of three families. These claims are for six young boys who were ritualistically sexually abused by your priest in the church parish of Amalie, Father Francis Dubois.”

Moroux calmly shoved the papers to the side as if they were in his way. “Routinely, Mr. Ponce, I am not involved in the legal affairs of the diocese. I will forward these papers to legal counsel, who will review them.”

Ponce remained standing, motioning for Brent Thomas to rise from his chair. Addressing Moroux, Ponce said, “There’s nothing routine about this. These cases involve the sexual abuse of six children by a Catholic priest. There are people in Amalie who want to kill both Father Dubois and Bishop Reynolds. All of us have an obligation to attempt to end the violence. We’ve done our part in coming here. It’s up to the diocese now. You have
twenty-four
hours from now to get Father Dubois the hell out of Amalie.”

Ponce reached across Moroux’s desk for a memo pad and scribbled a phone number. “This is Brent’s telephone number at home. If we don’t hear from you by Monday morning at nine, we will file these suits and distribute copies to every newspaper and television station in the state. Then everyone will know about your monster priest.”

Outwardly, Moroux remained nonchalant. Inwardly, his heart was racing so fast he feared it would burst. He could not remember ever having had this kind of reaction to anything.

On his way to the door, Ponce stopped and turned toward Moroux, who remained in his chair. “You have until Monday morning to call. Then everyone will know what we know about your priest.”

Standing among the bronze pope heads at the end of the hall, Brent Thomas turned to Ricardo Ponce in anger. “Why did you do that? Why did you storm out of there? You didn’t give the monsignor a chance to talk. These people are my clients, my kin.
They had never been in a lawyer’s office in their lives. They’re really uncomfortable about suing. They’re family – and you know how hard it was to talk them into suing their Church.”

“Yeah, well now they’re suing their Church.”

“None of them, not Randy or the others, will let us put this on the public record Monday morning, give this to the press, and expose their sons’ names and what happened. Christ, we can’t file these suits Monday. What the hell are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking the diocese is more afraid of this becoming public than your clients are.”

“Suppose you’re wrong. Just suppose the good monsignor calls your bluff and tells you to file the suits on Monday. What then?”

“He won’t do that. The diocese can’t let this stuff hit the press.”

“You really were disrespectful to the monsignor.”

“Fuck the monsignor.”

Monsignor Moroux stared out of the tall, narrow windows and across the huge cemetery. Often he found himself looking at the stone markers crowded close together. Usually the sight soothed him. Not this time.

After the young lawyers left, Monsignor Jean-Paul Moroux did something he had never done before. He locked the office door, as if that would somehow keep out anything else he was not prepared to deal with. He knew he would have to call the bishop and notify the lawyers. He would do that after lunch. First he would remove himself from the chancery and go to his home, next door. He needed a drink. As he stared at the gravestones, he heard the muffled bells in the cathedral tower ring twelve times. Then it was quiet.

“Yes. You will take care of this.”

That was all Bishop Reynolds could muster over the telephone when Monsignor Moroux finished briefing him on his visit from attorneys Ponce and Thomas.

When Moroux mentioned one of the lawyers said there were people around Amalie who wanted to kill the Bishop, Bishop Reynolds had a long spasmodic coughing episode and rang off.

In turn, Moroux passed the matter over to archdiocesan counsel, Thomas Quinlan, in New Orleans. As he talked with Attorney Quinlan on the phone, spelling out everything as best he could – including the threat of the Monday morning deadline – Moroux sat at the desk in the study of his residence, sipping vodka. As he lit a cigarette, he realized another was burning in the ashtray.

“Jean-Paul, a young lawyer from my office named James Ryburn will be at your office in Thiberville within three hours. Copy every document those lawyers, Ponce and Thomas, gave to you and give them to Ryburn. I need to have the files to know when the offenses occurred, which of our insurance companies have coverage and financial responsibility for the various claims.”

Archdiocesan counsel Tom Quinlan moved heaven and earth. Social schedules in the Garden District of New Orleans, dinner
reservations in private rooms of French Quarter restaurants, a small soirée at the New Orleans Country Club, golf games, tennis matches and plans to attend the Tulane–Navy football game were all canceled by attorneys who headed some of the most prestigious law firms in the city. These attorneys represented a consortium of insurance companies that had twenty-five million dollars of coverage at risk should the Roman Catholic Diocese of Thiberville be found liable for payouts to victims of clergy sexual abuse.

Most of these insurance lawyers were cynical men with a view of the world no humanist would share. Some were mean to their core. They represented large corporations, institutions and insurance companies against individuals who had been injured by the intentional or negligent actions of their clients. They rarely won a case, for the object of their legal practice was not to have victories in court, but rather to minimize losses to their clients.

In the conference room of Quinlan’s office the lawyers quickly established there was no legal precedent that could provide guidance regarding liability issues or the value of such claims as this was the first case of its kind in the country. The Catholic Church had never been sued over the sexual abuse of children by a priest. The overriding concern shared by all counsel was not to do anything that would make it seem like it was open season on the Diocese of Thiberville for claims of this kind. It was their universal silent belief that the six children represented by Brent Thomas and Ricardo Ponce were probably not the only potential plaintiffs who could bring a lawsuit against Father Dubois and the diocese, but maybe only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

The back-room shuffle among these men of immense egos was fierce. There were arguments about which insurance companies had financial exposure and financial responsibility for which claims. The claims covered different years, and in each of those years the diocese had a different insurance program. Some companies had “first dollar coverage” in some years (where the first money of any claims would be paid from their pockets), but were not even part of the insurance program in other years. In all,
the insurance policies were stacked to a total coverage of
twenty-five
million dollars.

Finally, a lead mule emerged from the pack in the person of Robert Blassingame, of the firm Miller, Sikes, Wilder, Gentry, Donebane and Doise. The insurance company he represented seemed to have the greatest financial exposure.

Blassingame’s reputation as a hard-nosed litigator and
cold-hearted
, clear-headed trial lawyer was legendary. He once excused himself from his own son’s funeral wake to appear for a scheduled argument before an appeals court, a matter that could have been postponed by opposing counsel and the court as a matter of respect and courtesy. Blassingame delayed the funeral rather than the court appearance. Nothing was sacred to him except the funds of his corporate insurance clients – from which he extracted exorbitant fees for his services.

The conference lasted through the night. At sunrise, only Tom Quinlan and Robert Blassingame remained in Quinlan’s office suite.

Sunday morning the call came to Monsignor Moroux’s residence early. Tom Quinlan and Robert Blassingame were both on the line.

“Monsignor, this is Robert Blassingame, lead counsel for the diocesan insurance companies. You have to get that damned priest out of the diocese. I mean today. That’s first.”

Quinlan said, “Jean-Paul, call those lawyers and tell them we do not want the children injured by a public filing and we will arrange Monday to have a judge sign an order sealing the lawsuits. Okay?”

“We-ell, Tom, I can remove Father Francis and I can call the lawyers. But what about their other demands?” Moroux said.

“Monsignor, this is Robert Blassingame again. You tell them
that serious settlement negotiations will be conducted in your office this Friday at ten a.m.”

“The point you have to make with the lawyers, Jean-Paul,” Tom Quinlan said, “the point is this. The lawsuits must be sealed and there must be absolute confidentiality or there can be no serious settlement discussions. These lawyers have to control their clients. If their clients talk to anyone about this, there can be no deal.”

“Is that it?” Moroux asked.

“You have our authority to buy the cases for four million dollars total,” said Blassingame. “I will mail a letter of authority tomorrow. If you cannot negotiate a settlement for that amount, schedule another meeting with them in a week. Monsignor, you will meet alone with the lawyers. You will represent that any funds paid to their clients will come from diocesan coffers, depleting the charitable funds of the diocese, adversely impacting charitable programs. Let ’em know they and their clients are taking money from the Church. At all costs, maintain secrecy.”

Monsignor Moroux asked, “Is this legal?”

“Don’t worry about it, Monsignor, don’t worry. We cannot have those young lawyers smelling out large insurance policies, believing we have the kind of insurance coverage we have. We’ll wire money into the diocesan account before you issue a check if you are able to reach a settlement and Tommy Quinlan will prepare the settlement documents and appear at the signing as a Church lawyer. No insurance defense lawyer will be involved for appearance’s sake. Got it?”

“Uh-huh. Got it.” The monsignor said.

“One other thing, Monsignor,” Blassingame said. “Who are these lawyers – these boys – Brent Thomas and Ricardo Ponce?”

“Thomas is from the area around Amalie, down in Bayou Saint John. I think he’s a cousin of the families who are suing. All I know about Ponce is what you know. His letterhead has a Fort Lauderdale, Florida address.”

When the call ended, Tom Quinlan went to the sideboard and
poured a tall drink for himself. Looking to Blassingame, who nodded his assent, Quinlan topped off a second Scotch, then asked, “Who the hell do you think this Brent Thomas and Ricardo Ponce are, Robert?”

“I don’t know, Tommy. I never heard of them. No one is from Fort Lauderdale.”

Blassingame downed his Scotch, set the glass on the sideboard and took his leave, pausing at the door to say, “Whoever the
sons-of
-bitches are, they’re going to be rich sons-of-bitches pretty soon.”

It was Sunday. Quinlan would attend Mass at Saint Louis Cathedral. Blassingame would go to his law firm’s sky box in the Super Dome for the Saints vs Falcons football game.

Tom Quinlan sat at his desk for a long time. In the corner of the office was an Italian bronze sculpture of Lady Justice. He stared at her. He had always understood what the blindfold symbolized as well as the scales of justice held in one hand. He had never given thought to the sword held in her other hand.