The 7th Canon (8 page)

He hung up and called out, “Ruth-Bell!” She stood beside his desk, another of her unnerving habits.

“Lou keeps razors in his office closet. I’ll get a fresh one for you,” she said, regaining some measure of vinegar. When he didn’t immediately respond, she said, “Get moving. I’ve called a cab. It will be close.”

“Slow down. The meeting isn’t until this afternoon.”

“I’m not talking about the meeting with the archbishop.” She handed him a file. “You have Mr. Anitolli’s competency hearing in probate court.”

Vincenzo Anitolli’s competency hearing lasted longer than Donley thought necessary. As a result, he had less time than he needed to get to the archdiocese’s offices on Church Street in the Mission District, which he thought a fitting address. He had never been to the building, and he was surprised when the cab dropped him in front of a rectangular structure with aluminum-framed windows and patches of discolored stucco where paint had been rolled to cover graffiti. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, perhaps Gothic grandeur with gargoyles and turrets and stained glass. Instead, a simple silver cross atop the roof was the only indication the tenant was a religious organization. The inside décor was just as understated, without any of the dark-stained wood, red-velvet curtains, or fresco paintings Donley associated with eighteenth-century Roman Catholic excess.

As the archbishop’s secretary led Donley to Parnisi’s office, the building shook, and it took Donley a moment to realize it was the Church Street trolley rumbling past the front of the building and not an earthquake. Don Parnisi stood behind his desk, his extra-large body blocking the light from a window like the moon causing a near eclipse of the sun. Parnisi carried his weight on a six-foot-seven-inch frame like a Midwestern farmer—barrel chest, huge shoulders, and beefy arms and legs. Donley doubted the man had ever lifted a weight in his life. His was a body genetically engineered. Dressed in all black but for the white clerical collar, Parnisi crossed the office, causing the floor to shake nearly as much as when the trolley had rolled by. Donley noticed dark circles under the archbishop’s eyes, a chink in his suit of otherwise-substantial armor.

The archbishop’s hand swallowed Donley’s. “How’s Lou doing?”

“Not much change in his condition, I’m afraid,” Donley said.

“He’s tough. Always has been. I’ll get to the hospital later today.”

“I know my aunt would appreciate it.”

Donley declined the secretary’s offer of a glass of water, and the woman departed. As Parnisi returned to his desk, Donley took the opportunity to consider photographs and football memorabilia lining shelves and hanging on the walls. The collage chronicled the life of a tall young man from his days in a Saint James High School football uniform to priesthood. On the east wall hung a picture of Parnisi about to kiss Pope Paul VI’s ring, the Pope smiling, his eyes and face expressing amazement at Parnisi’s sheer size. Beside it, framed behind glass, hung Parnisi’s Notre Dame football jersey. Lou said Notre Dame had won a national championship Parnisi’s senior year.

“I guess the last time we saw each other was your mother’s funeral,” Parnisi said, turning as he reached his desk.

“That day is a bit of a blur,” Donley said. Six years earlier, at Lou’s request, Parnisi had presided over Donley’s mother’s funeral, an ornate affair for a very simple woman.

“I buried my mother two years ago. She was ninety-four. It’s never easy. Your mother died too young; she had a lot of life left to live.”

Given that she’d had no life when his father had been alive, Donley thought his mother’s cancer had been a particularly cruel fate. He hadn’t set foot in a church since her funeral.

“You look more like your father with each year.” When Donley didn’t respond, Parnisi said, “I meant it as a compliment, Peter. For all his faults, your father was a good-looking man.”

That was like saying Idi Amin had faults but a nice smile. Even so, Donley couldn’t deny he’d inherited his father’s sandy-brown hair and blue eyes.

“The girls used to flock to the gas station on Divisadero where he worked, but not your mother. Your grandmother forbade her; she said it looked cheap. Your father had to find her at a dance.” Parnisi smiled. “She was a sight to behold, your mother.”

Donley wondered if Parnisi also knew his father got his mother pregnant on her eighteenth birthday and married her only after she refused to get an abortion, or whether he knew that his father never forgave either of them for ruining his ambition to move to Hollywood to become the next James Dean.

As Parnisi lowered himself into the leather chair behind his desk, Donley unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat in one of two chairs on the opposite side. Hopefully, the stroll down memory lane was over. The archbishop directed his gaze out a window with a view of the salmon-colored spire of the Mission Dolores church. “I’ve leaned on Lou so many times over the years, I feel lost without him. I practically have to force him to bill me for his time, and even then, he grossly undercharges me.”

Terrific.
No wonder Donley was underpaid. “He speaks highly of you,” Donley said.

“He’d better,” Parnisi said, refocusing his attention on Donley. “I saved his butt more than a few times. Did he tell you we were born three houses apart, three months apart?”

A hundred times,
Donley thought, but sensing Parnisi needed to reminisce, he shook his head and said, “No.”

“He’s been following me ever since. I darn near convinced him to go into the seminary with me until he met your aunt. God was no match for her. Probably for the better; your uncle’s always had a mouth like a sailor.”

“It would have made for some colorful sermons,” Donley said.

Parnisi smiled. “Indeed, it would have.” Parnisi opened a desk drawer and removed a pipe and a bag of tobacco, placing it on his desk. “You’ve read the
Chronicle
?”

“I have,” Donley said.

“Father Martin’s arrest is getting national exposure. One of the afternoon talk shows called.” Parnisi nimbly packed the pipe with a pinch of tobacco, flicked a lighter, and sucked the flame into the bowl. The room soon filled with a sweet aroma that reminded Donley of the smell of maple syrup.

Parnisi clenched the pipe between his teeth, looking like something out of Scotland Yard. “I was the one who approved Father Martin’s shelter; I gave it my blessing and approved his mission.”

“It was a good mission,” Donley said. “A lot of kids out there need help.”

Parnisi took a long pull on the pipe before placing the bowl in a tray on his desk. Smoke escaped his nostrils as he spoke. “I received a telephone call from the district attorney. He called it a courtesy call. He wanted me to know the evidence against Father Martin is substantial. Between the lines, I think he’s fishing.”

“For what?”

“He’s trying to find out if I intend to get involved or to stay out of the matter.”

“You’ll want to consider the likelihood of an eventual civil action by the family of the victim,” Donley said. “They’ll look for the deepest pocket.”

“Your uncle would have said exactly the same thing. I won’t run, Peter . . . and I can’t hide. I’m a reflection of this church—I’m too damn big to hide. If someone is going to sue the archdiocese, they’ll know where to find us. Ramsey wants to meet. He says it’s to discuss the evidence, but again, I think he wants to find out if I intend to help Father Martin with legal counsel.”

“I assume that’s why you called,” Donley said.

“I won’t abandon Father Martin, Peter.” Parnisi took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. “I want you to know that after I learned of Lou’s heart attack, I spoke with Larry Carr at Easton, Miller, and Carr. I’ve asked him to meet with Gil Ramsey.”

Donley sat forward. On those rare occasions when Lou had a conflict of interest, the archdiocese sent its work to Larry Carr. “Archbishop, I know you’re concerned because Lou is in the hospital, but I can assure you, I can handle the meeting with the district attorney. I’ve already met with Father Martin at Lou’s request.” Donley left out the specifics of that meeting, since there were none. “So I’m familiar with the charges, and I’ve handled several criminal matters.” Again, he didn’t elaborate. “These things move slowly, Archbishop. I can evaluate the evidence and give you my assessment. With the upcoming holidays, nothing is going to happen quickly. That gives us time to determine the severity of Lou’s condition and when he will be returning to work.”

The archbishop looked unconvinced. “Lou speaks very highly of you and your abilities, Peter. Please don’t misunderstand. But I know Lou handles the criminal work, and I suspect a murder charge is well beyond your experience or expertise.”

Donley knew it had taken Lou forty years to build his practice and felt an obligation not to let Lou lose his biggest client on his watch. “I understand, but that’s not something you need to decide at this moment. If I have to, I can bring in co-counsel.” Donley put a hand on the edge of the big desk. “I’m not your typical third-year lawyer, Archbishop. I’ve had more than forty trials. Let me meet with the DA and hear what he has to say. What is it you’re looking for right at this moment?”

Parnisi sighed. “I need someone who will cut through the political crap and legal rhetoric and tell me what is in Father Martin’s best interest. I’d prefer not to take advice from Gil Ramsey. I’d look out the window if he called to tell me it was raining.”

Donley looked to the window and smiled. “It’s not raining, Archbishop.”

Parnisi smiled.

“I can handle it,” Donley said. “I’ll talk to Ramsey, and I’ll evaluate the evidence. I’ll be as straight with you as I know Lou has always been.”

“I’m not sure that’s a positive. Lou’s roughed me up a bit over the years.” Parnisi sat back, the pipe again clenched between his teeth, considering Donley through the blue-gray haze.

Chapter 8

Gil Ramsey watched Linda St. Claire literally come out of her chair. “You’re going to LWOP a murderer?” she asked, using the acronym for a plea of
life without parole
.

“I didn’t say we’re going to offer anything.”

Ramsey had politicked on a tough-on-crime platform, and it was well known he did not plea-bargain a first-degree-murder charge. “But given the potential problems with the evidence, it would be irresponsible not to consider alternatives.”

“The press will crucify us,” St. Claire said, now pacing his office.

“No, they’ll crucify us if
you
don’t get a conviction.”

She bristled. “I’ll convict the son of a bitch. Just get me twelve jurors and a courtroom.”

“Are you going to guarantee that?” He raised a hand to stop her before she could respond. “You better think before you answer that question, because there’s a hell of a lot riding on this . . . for both of us.”

St. Claire turned her back like a chastised nine-year-old. Her desire was to succeed Ramsey as district attorney.

“If the defense accepts life without the possibility of parole, the matter will be over before it—or the press—finds out about the problems with the evidence,” Ramsey said, hating the fact that he was parroting his father’s admonition from earlier that morning. “We’ll all have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and Father Martin goes away for life, where he can never hurt anyone again.”

St. Claire shook her head. “I can’t even fathom you’d consider making such an offer.”

Ramsey sat forward. “That’s because your ego is clogging your ears. You’re not hearing me. I’m not suggesting
we offer
anything. That’s exactly why I assigned you to handle this. Your reputation will confirm we intend to seek the death penalty. I’ve just issued a statement to the media hinting that the evidence against Father Martin is substantial. The press won’t crucify us; they’ll help us. Whoever represents Father Martin will get an immediate and strong dose of reality. Father Martin is going to the gas chamber if they don’t do something to prevent it.”

St. Claire stopped pacing and considered him. “You want his attorney to
request
a deal in exchange for a guilty plea.”

Ramsey shrugged. “One would hope a good lawyer would see the wisdom of it.”

“So, how do we do that? How do we get his attorney to think we’d consider a deal without hinting at it? Nobody in the public defender’s office would think it a possibility.”

“I put in a call to the archbishop this morning and requested a meeting.”

St. Claire sat. “I would have assumed the church would run from this as fast and far as possible.”

“And ordinarily that assumption would be accurate, but as I said, you don’t know Donatello Parnisi.”

“I heard he’s a tough old bird; I didn’t hear he was stupid.”

“Oh, he’s not stupid,” Ramsey said. “But he’s also not your typical church bureaucrat, either. He’s his own man. He’ll see honor in standing behind Father Martin, damn what the eventual financial and political ramifications might be.”

“When is he coming?”

“He’s not. He’s sending Larry Carr.” Ramsey checked his wristwatch. “Within the next twenty minutes.”

“Carr’s not bad,” St. Claire conceded. “I’ve tried a few cases against him before he went into private practice. I thought he handles only white-collar stuff now?”