In God's House (16 page)

“You swear our boys won’t have to go to court?” the man in the cap asked.

“On my father’s grave,” Ricardo Ponce said.

When the meeting broke up, Brent and Ricardo went to a Mexican restaurant around the corner from Thomas’s office. Casa Grande had sombreros on brick walls and Herb Alpert music in the background. They sat in a booth with frozen mugs of draft beer in front of them, the ice sliding down the sides and making puddles on the red plastic tablecloth.

“Why do you eat here?” Ricardo asked Brent. “Mexican food is loser food. I only eat Mexican when I lose a case. You could jinx the whole deal for us by eating frijoles.”

Ignoring Ricardo, Brent went to the top of his agenda. “How could you tell them their kids will not have to continue to see a doctor, Ricardo? Christ, I think one of the mistakes we made with the first group was not setting aside money for medical treatment in the settlement, money that could be used only for that purpose. Don’t you think these kids need serious long-term therapy and treatment regimes?”

Ponce sipped a beer and shrugged. “I’m a lawyer, not a doctor. I don’t know what they need. Sometimes I think the way that guy in the cap thinks. I think sometimes the kids just need to get
through this. If they don’t want any more therapy, it’s no skin off my back. I just want enough medical documentation to support large monetary settlements in these cases.”

“And how could you… how could you promise them their kids would never testify in open court in a criminal or civil trial? You don’t know that.”

“Nobody knows that. It’s what they needed to hear today, so I said it.” Ponce drained a third of his beer, retrieved a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his lips.

“Jesus, Ricardo. You were in there swearing on your father’s grave.”

“My father’s grave?” Ricardo glanced at his Cartier watch. “About now I imagine Dad is on the seventh or eighth tee at the Coral Reef Country Club. He lives along the sixth fairway. He’s a retired orthopedic surgeon in Miami. He’s never seen Mexico. Like me, he hates Mexican food. Jesus, we’re Puerto Rican, third generation south Florida. My old man cut me off in college because he found a kilo of pot in the trunk of my car, but he’s a good guy. You’d like him. He’d like you. Bet you never smoked grass in your whole life.”

Brent Thomas sadly shook his head.

“Damnit, Brent,” Ponce said. “We spent three years getting drunk together in law school. There’s nothing we don’t know about each other. If we play to our strengths in this, we can get more money than we ever dreamed of. You can build a mansion for your wife. I can load up some boat whores and cruise the Caribbean. This is our shot, man, this is our fucking shot. So just relax, can’t you? We got through this morning. We’re gonna get through the other parents tomorrow. This time around, though, I’m going to have to be better at what I do and I wish you would do more of what you do so well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Find some more cases, Brent, some more boys this priest sexually abused. I’d bet all the money we’ve made and the money we’re gonna make that this fucking piece-of-shit priest diddled
every boy who came within spitting distance of him. Dig ’em up. They’re out there somewhere. Tell ya what, Brent – if you can get some more clients signed up, we’ll go fifty-fifty on those legal fees. Ten more kids would be another million for you, another million for me. You must have used the first families to get to these families. Do it again. Get us some more cases. I can handle the guns. Just get me the ammunition.”

“Don’t you even care about the children? About them getting medical treatment? Don’t you care about reconciling these families to their faith, the only religion their families have ever had for generations? Don’t you care about what’s right?”

Ricardo Ponce looked at Brent Thomas quizzically. He stood up and laid a crisp twenty-dollar bill on the table. “You care, Brent. No one is paying me to care.”

Only a tiny sliver of light showed through the heavy blackout drapes when the wake-up call came from the hotel switchboard. I had no idea where I was. I stumbled across the room and ran into thick draperies. Pulling them apart, I saw the night lights of a big city. As my eyes began to focus, I realized I was overlooking Central Park in New York City. Disoriented, still exhausted, I fell back on the bed.

The last thing I remembered was walking across the hotel lobby three nights earlier. It was late and the limo had driven me in from New Jersey. I’d had a garment bag over my arm, briefcase in one hand, half-empty vodka bottle in the other. The elevator was mirrored and I had hardly recognized myself in the dimly lit reflection.

Now, as I forced myself up and toward the bathroom, I bumped into two room-service carts and was pleased to know I had eaten, done something besides sleep all weekend. Under the shower, I wondered what had happened to me. It was as if the events of the last week had overloaded the wiring in my body, blown the circuits. I must have collapsed here after seeing Francis Dubois at the Stalder Institute on Thursday and not left the room all weekend.

Now I needed to face the world again, get back to Thiberville.

From New York I flew via Houston, Texas and landed in Thiberville about 10 a.m. I went directly to the Old Bishop’s House, where I found Monsignor Jean-Paul Moroux, Thomas Quinlan, and Monsignor Buddy Belair huddled around a television set, watching a video clip of Kane Chaisson. His bald head filled the screen.

It was obvious to me that, despite my recommendation, no
pre-emptive
statement had been issued by the bishop on Sunday. Thus, the first the public heard about any of this was an articulate accuser’s assault.

As I stared at the screen, the camera pulled back to reveal that Kane Chaisson had given this statement in front of Saint Stephen’s Cathedral – a few steps from where we now sat. The bells were ringing in the background; he had clearly timed his Sunday morning announcement advisedly. It was classic Chaisson as he railed against the Church. “Both the Bible and the Constitution of our country make a boy equal to a bishop – equal in the eyes of God, equal in the eyes of the law. My client wants me to break the secret seal Church lawyers put on his case tomorrow. The public, especially Catholics, have a right to know that the bishop was responsible for the worst kind of vicious, violent, repugnant, immoral horrors perpetrated on an innocent child at the hands of a Catholic priest.”

If Chaisson had been able to ring the chimes once more when he concluded his statement, he would have, but the statement alone was dramatic enough. The piece ended with a long shot showing the high steeple of our landmark church.

I whistled. “Where and when did this air?”

The archbishop’s lawyer, Tom Quinlan, said, “Channel 2. Five, six and ten last night. And early this morning, I understand. That’s it for Chaisson. The judge is going to put a sock in his mouth just about now. Bendel’s filed for a gag order on all counsel as well as an order barring the press from being present in the
courtroom for the hearing this morning. Joe Rossi’s close to the judge. There shouldn’t be a problem.”

Switching off the video recorder and television, Quinlan continued, “Jon Bendel and Joe Rossi got to the
Thiberville Register
late last night and there wasn’t a word about this in the paper this morning. But I understand that a lot of media are down at the Bayou Saint John courthouse right now.”

I was impressed that Kane Chaisson had managed to seize the moral high ground from the Catholic Church, not an easy thing to do in these parts.

Concluding his argument to Judge Amos Simon, Jon Bendel said, “In the final analysis, Your Honor, it is the position of my clients, the Catholic Diocese of Thiberville and Bishop Reynolds, that we seek only what is in the interest of the young boy who is the plaintiff in this legal action. We are asking the court to exercise its discretionary power to protect this child of a tender age, to ensure his identity is shielded from the media and the public. We request that, firstly, you close all legal proceedings relating to this lawsuit to the media, barring the press; and, secondly, that you order that the seal of secrecy remain in place, which will forever protect the young child from having his identity publicly revealed. Finally, we ask that your order extend to commanding all legal counsel to refrain from commenting to the press. Thank you.”

Bendel was not in his chair before Chaisson was on his feet, his voice booming. “Your Honor, I’ve no words to address the arrogance of the diocese and bishop. They come before you today, represented by Jonathan Bendel, and pretend to care for my client, a child of nine. Yet they showed no concern for him over three long, torturous years when he was being sodomized by their priest. It’s a little late for them to assume a pious stance in this
matter. The only secrets Mr. Bendel seeks to preserve are the dark secrets of a bishop and his diocese. If there is something that someone has to hide from the world, it is not my client. The press has a right, in fact a duty, to inform the public of the secrets Mr. Bendel’s clients want to keep hidden away in a vault in this courthouse. We respectfully request that you deny the motion of Mr. Bendel in all parts.”

Judge Amos Simon poured himself a glass of water, took a swallow, and began. “The court admonishes all representatives of the media to respect and protect the privacy of the party to this litigation who is of a tender age. Should the child’s name be mentioned by any media organization, a contempt citation will be issued for the arrest of any reporter who violates the order of this court. As regards the motion Mr. Bendel filed on behalf of his clients to bar the press, to keep the lawsuit sealed, and to place a gag order on the lawyers involved in this litigation, the court denies the motion in all parts.”

A delivery from a seafood restaurant was spread on the table. As Moroux set a pitcher of tea and cans of soft drinks at one end of the table, he apologized that his help had the day off. Sister Julianne and Joe Rossi had arrived. We were waiting on Jon Bendel to return from the Bayou Saint John courthouse.

Twice I was pulled aside. First, Monsignor Moroux motioned for me to join him in the kitchen, where he asked if I could come by later that day. I told him I had a late-afternoon meeting with District Attorney Sean Robinette. “Come tonight then,” he said. “I will be here in the residence or in my office. This back door will be unlocked.”

As I left the kitchen, Joe Rossi grabbed my arm and guided me to the back porch. Rossi blew his nose into a handkerchief. “Funny,
Renon. You leaving my luggage on the sidewalk in front of Antoine’s like that Wednesday. Real funny. Everyone was headed back to Thiberville before I realized I was stuck in Noo Awlins. I ended up in Bendel’s love-nest apartment in the French Quarter with a window air conditioner blowing on my head all night. Caught a damned cold. But I’m gonna forgive you.”

“Hey, Joe, I didn’t apologize.”

“Look, Renon, so we don’t see all this stuff eye to eye, but we’re all in it to the end. Trust me, son, you don’t want to fight this one without friends. And you don’t wanta fight with me. I’m the last person I’d want as an enemy.”

The porch door opened behind Rossi. Jon Bendel motioned for us to come inside. He was pulling off his coat and loosening his tie. The unflappable Jonathan Bendel looked rattled.

Turning to look straight at Joe Rossi, Bendel said, “Joe, your good friend Judge Amos Simon caved in like a cardboard suitcase. You said he would hold, but he folded. He denied the gag order, refused to bar the press, and he unsealed the Rachou lawsuit. We lost on all counts.”

Monsignor Belair blurted out his shock. “Kane Chaisson won?”

Bendel looked at Belair like he was an idiot child. “Right. The Rachou suit against the diocese is no longer sealed. It is open to the press and the public. The clerks are burning up a copy machine down at the Bayou Saint John courthouse right now, making copies of the Rachou file for the press.”

“Shit,” Rossi said, then nodded to the nun. “Sorry ma’am.”

Bendel poured a glass of tea. “The good judge was so shook up he let Kane Chaisson run wild when the hearing started. Chaisson first filed a two-hundred-page supplemental brief into the record that probably traced the public records doctrine back to the time of ancient Greek civilization, maybe to the time of hieroglyphics. Then Chaisson’s oral argument danced back and forth between the constitution and the Bible. He was good. The son-of-a-gun is a powerful orator when he gets a head of steam.”

The diocesan spokesman, Lloyd Lecompte, rushed into the room in a sweat, literally wringing wet with perspiration. “Did you see the noon news on Channel 2? Did anyone see it?”

No one spoke.

Lecompte dropped video cassettes on the table. “It’s on all the channels. But Channel 2 was the worst. The reporter read directly from Chaisson’s lawsuit. It seemed like he was reading for a half hour. The paragraphs he concentrated on were allegations of negligent supervision on the part of Bishop Reynolds. And… and he said a subpoena was filed in the record by Chaisson moments after the hearing, a subpoena which seeks the production of the personnel files of Father Francis Dubois. He named him – he actually said his name. And though he didn’t name others, he said thirty-one other priests’ personnel files were also being subpoenaed by Chaisson.”

Rossi stood and addressed Monsignor Moroux. “I gotta get to that station manager at Channel 2, unscrew his head and pour some sense into him.”

Lecompte tried to get the floor back. “I think we have to issue a statement. We ought to read it at my office across town and keep the cathedral out of the picture. It was horrible what Chaisson did last night – using the cathedral as a backdrop for an attack on the bishop and the diocese. Horrible. We need to work on the statement now, I think.”

Tom Quinlan cleared his throat loudly. “Mr. Lecompte, why don’t you use the monsignor’s office and begin working on the statement. We’ll join you later. Right now I think we need a meeting of just counsel with Monsignor Moroux.”

Turning to Moroux, he asked, “May we use the bishop’s office?”

Quinlan, Bendel and Moroux rose and started out of the room, running into Rossi, who marched by, announcing, “I’m going to see those sons-of-bitches at the TV stations.” This time Rossi did not apologize to the nun for his language. He just grabbed a handful of fried shrimp, wrapped them in a paper napkin and headed for the door.

Tom Quinlan turned around and said, “Renon, why don’t you join us?”

As we moved through the hall connecting the residence to the chancery, the lights were out in the windowless passageway. We walked into the dark.

Once we were seated in the bishop’s office overlooking the Saint Augustine Cemetery, Tom Quinlan said, “Renon, we have to know now. Is there any chance, any chance at all that you can get Father Dubois to do the right thing and plead guilty now? Right now? This week? End this?”

I shook my head. Quinlan just stared at me. Bendel sighed, blowing the air from his lungs. Quinlan grunted once, cleared his throat and turned to Monsignor Moroux. “Monsignor, Kane Chaisson just gave us a great gift by running his mouth on TV. We have an opportunity to do some clerical housekeeping. Before the sun comes up tomorrow, we need you to go through all the personnel files of active priests in the secret archives and purge any material that could cause scandal to the Church.”

I kept my eyes on Monsignor Moroux. It seemed that life was draining out of him. His body was limp.

“Here’s the thing, Monsignor,” Quinlan said, “and I’m confident both Jon and Renon will concur. You see, if you receive a court order commanding you to produce a document, then you must comply and hand over the document described in the subpoena. However, if the document does not exist at the time the subpoena arrives, then you cannot very well hand it over, can you? Because it simply does not exist.”

Jon Bendel caught Quinlan’s drift. “Monsignor, these personnel files that Chaisson is subpoenaing… we don’t know the names of the thirty-one priests yet, and we will not know that until the subpoena arrives. So, the personnel files of all active priests will have to be purged.”

“I don’t understand,” Monsignor Moroux said.

As was his habit, Quinlan cleared his throat again, albeit softly
this time. “Monsignor, we are talking about sanitizing the personnel files. We have an obligation to protect innocent priests and their reputations. And Church law imposes an obligation on one in your position, on all of us, to do whatever is necessary to protect the Church from scandal.”

“You’re saying I should cull all the personnel records,” the monsignor said, “and remove any unfavorable or damaging material? I cannot do that. I won’t. We have to maintain these records. The next bishop, my successor as vicar general, and all future administrators of this diocese will need access to the information in these files in order to evaluate priests and plan assignments. I will not do what you ask.”

Quinlan was composed and condescending. “Monsignor, as a matter of policy, we have many of our corporate clients shred tons of material on an ongoing basis to avoid documents falling into the wrong hands and being misinterpreted in litigation. It is standard strategy in corporate litigation. You have to make the other guy prove their case. You don’t prove it for them.”

Monsignor Moroux shifted in his chair, sitting more upright. “I will not do this. Jon can fight this in court for us. I will refuse to turn over the files of men who are not involved in this case. I will not destroy any part of any record pertaining to any priest. I am not giving the court anything but the records for Father Francis.”