“And this told you what? That you were chosen by God?”
“You know, Mr. Schenk, you have made some terrible accusations against me, and terrible implications about the effects you believe I’ve had on other people. I’ll grant you one thing: I seem to bring out the worst in some people.” He looked pointedly at Schenk, who was about to react when Burke went on:
“Durum est mihi contra stimu-lum ealeitrare.
And of those, you are the most offensive.” Gasps from the crowd and the jury. Somehow I managed to keep my head from banging on the table. Burke may have been right, and may even have earned some sympathy, but this attack would only serve, yes, to bring out the worst in the prosecutor. And what had Burke said to him in Latin?
In the meantime, Karl retaliated: “Well then, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee.”
“Ah, a slur on my religion now, is it?” I doubted that Justice Fineberg recognized the words from the Act of Contrition, and I left it alone, hoping some of the jurors would be offended on Burke’s behalf.
Schenk moved on. “All right, Mr. Burke. Tell us what this wound meant for you.”
“In my mind, Mr. Schenk, it meant that in some mystical way I was being asked — ordered — to serve God. I did not enter the priesthood solely because of that, naturally. But it gave me the jolt I needed to get started in pursuing my vocation.”
“But wouldn’t that have happened to anyone?” The prosecutor assumed a puzzled expression. “Anyone who was wearing a cross around his or her neck, or some other piece of jewelry? If the person went too close to the flames, the gold would get hot enough to burn flesh, leaving an imprint of itself in the skin. Wouldn’t that have happened, not just to you, but to anyone?”
“Yes, I suppose it would.”
“Well then, how could you see it, in your own case, as a mystical experience, a sign from God?”
“I wasn’t wearing a crucifix.”
I bolted forward in my seat. I sensed the rapt attention of the jurors. I knew Schenk did not want to do this, but he went ahead and asked the question anyway. “What do you mean, you weren’t wearing a crucifix?”
“You’ve painted me as a degenerate here in front of the jury, the judge, the press and the public. A dissolute youth, lying there in drunken, stoned bliss with two women giving me, ah, pleasure, while my friend was dying downstairs. What the hell would I be doing with a crucifix around my neck at that stage of my life?”
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison.
(Lord have merey, Christ have merey, Lord have merey.)
— The Mass
I
Father Burke was still under oath and I could not speak with him. He was escorted from the courtroom. Susan Drummond and I bolted for our conference room. I was about to shut the door behind us when I saw my wife coming towards me. “May I?” she asked, obviously in deference to Susan; otherwise, Maura would have made herself at home with nary an if you please. The two women knew each other and said their hellos.
“Let’s start at the end,” I said. “What was the reaction?”
Susan had been on the ball, I was relieved to learn. “The jurors were stupefied. We can’t assume they’re all believers and mystics. We know from jury selection that some of them are far from it. But every last one of them gaped at what Burke said. I can’t believe Schenk left it like that. It’s not often you see Schenk flummoxed.”
“True enough,” put in Maura. “And it wasn’t just the jurors who looked poleaxed. The woman sitting beside me had just squeezed in a few minutes before. When she heard Burke say he wasn’t wearing a
crucifix, she looked as if someone had entered her from the rear!”
“Who was the woman?” I said.
“Don’t know. She had short, straight dun-coloured hair, and she was kind of chunky. About thirty-five. She looked as if she was seeing God Almighty Himself. Her hands flew up to her face, which was the colour of oatmeal, and she didn’t quite manage to stifle a little cry. She’ll be saying her prayers with fervour tonight, whoever she is.”
“That must have been Eileen,” I answered. She had sat in occasionally during the trial. “Eileen Darragh. Assistant at the youth centre. She’s always thought Burke was God. Now she knows for sure.
“What’s the jury’s attitude to our guy, do you think? I don’t mean the mystical stuff. What about the sniping between him and Schenk? The woman in Brazil. Breaking the vows. That was only four years ago.” Anger made its way into my delivery. “I asked him straight out. Who could have seen that scar? Had he slept with anyone? He said no. Lying to the lawyer.
De rigueur
for any client. I guess they like to keep us in suspense —”
“Lighten up, Monty,” Susan said. “This is all the Crown can find on him in terms of character. Promises of chastity and obedience, he said. He didn’t use the word ‘vows.’ They’re not going to get a bishop to testify that he’s disobedient. The poverty angle is too nebulous, and we can be sure they’ve looked into his assets. So all they have is celibacy, and his evasiveness and dissembling about it. And —” Sue mouthed the words “— Mount A.”
Maura caught my warning look. I had not told her about the young woman at Mount Allison. My fear of the incident flared up again. It was exactly the sort of evidence Schenk might produce on rebuttal, to counter our evidence of Burke’s good, non-violent character.
“What is it?” Maura asked. “Is there something else?” I waved her question off and shook my head. She knew enough not to pursue the subject, though it would not be likely to slip her mind.
“Priests are allowed to do everything else,” Susan said, “so who cares if he gambles and takes a drink? He’s not a lush. As for the sex, the jurors probably don’t care. They understand. These guys are saddled with a vow of celibacy. If they break it once in a blue moon, it’s just human nature.”
“I hope so. It’s character and credibility though. He’s a liar, he
breaks his vows,
ergo,
you can’t believe his evidence, and what else might he do? I made him sound like a saint on direct. Now all this comes out. Jesus, if we have to go through a trial for Leeza Rae, they’ll crucify him.”
Susan held up a calming hand. “One step at a time, Monty. You men are so hysterical. This is the Cudmore trial, and sex is a minor sideshow. The jury loved him on the Janeece questions. They could see how deeply he cared for the little girl. Of course, that’s the motive. But if he’s that tender-hearted underneath the icy exterior, how can he be a killer?”
We returned to the courtroom and the cross-examination resumed. The witness was reminded that he was still under oath. The Crown prosecutor started his damage control immediately.
“In what year did this crucifix incident occur, Mr. Burke?”
“In i960.”
“And this branding, if we may call it that, changed your life, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“In what way?”
“I began to explore the idea that I had a vocation to the priesthood, I redirected my university studies to that end, I gave up some of my former activities, and I entered the seminary.”
“What year did you go into the seminary?”
“In 1962.”
Schenk took a sip of water. He cast a quick glance at the jurors to see if they were paying attention. They were. We all were. I tensed as he turned to the accused.
“Do you have any children, Mr. Burke?”
What?
They say there are no atheists in a foxhole; I wonder if there are any at the defence table when the accused is on the stand. What was God doing to me now? My client was staring in horror at the prosecutor. He looked as if he might need medical attention. I heard pens scratching on paper, and voices murmuring.
I finally got it together and leapt to my feet. “My Lady! Objection! This scar is relevant only as it relates to what was found on the body of Ms. Cudmore. The mystical aspect, or the effect it may have had on Father Burke’s life, is not relevant to this proceeding. My
Lady, Mr. Schenk is harassing the witness.”
“My Lady,” Schenk replied, “the accused has testified that this crucifix incident changed his life, made him mend his ways. The Crown has the right to cross-examine him on that issue.”
I had to sit and watch while the most personal and confidential aspects of my client’s life — so confidential that, once again, Burke had not confided them to me — were exposed to the merciless light of the courtroom.
“Mr. Burke. I’ll repeat the question. Do you have any children?”
“I do not have any children, Mr. Schenk.” His voice was caustic.
“I’m not asking whether you are raising a child as a single dad in the rectory, Mr. Burke. Let me be more precise. Have you ever fathered a child?”
Burke began massaging his temples with his left hand. He looked at Schenk with cold fury in his eyes. “Yes. Long ago.” Again, the scribbling and murmuring behind me.
“What year was your child born, Mr. Burke?” Schenk looked blandly at the witness.
Burke waited a long moment. “It was 1963.”
“So, you entered the seminary in i962 and you had a child born in i963?”
“Question asked and answered, My Lady,” I snapped, barely rising from my seat. Surely this torment would end.
“Where was the child born?”
“New York.”
“What happened to the child?”
“The baby was put up for adoption.”
I heard a clamour behind me, followed by rapid footsteps and the soft thud of the courtroom door closing.
“The pregnancy, the birth, the adoption process. Very stressful, traumatic events. For the mother. Were you a pillar of strength for her during this difficult time in her life?”
No response.
“Let the record show there was no response from the witness. I’ll try again, Mr. Burke. Did you send her flowers? A card?”
Burke did not reply. Just stared venomously at his tormentor as the flaying went on. I thought seriously of checking my client into a
hospital for observation. We both might require medication if this didn’t end soon.
“Do you ever wonder about your child, Mr. Burke?”
I saw a look of intense pain flash across the face of my client, then it was quickly masked. “Wherever my child is now, Mr. Schenk, he or she is in my prayers every day of my life.” Schenk had made his point and knew it was time to move on lest Burke gain in sympathy what he had lost in credibility. We could infer, from the feelings he could not hide, that Burke was the kind of man who cared about children. And mourned their loss. Would he strike out in revenge at the loss of a child he treasured? Would his feelings be all the stronger because he had already lost a child of his own?
It ended with a whimper, not a bang. The big guns had been fired; all that was left was to carry the wounded from the field.
“I told you so” should be engraved on the last page of every trial transcript. I told you, I implored you, I pleaded with you to stay off the witness stand. But you knew better.
I left the court with Burke as I always did, but the media onslaught was especially hard to bear that day. The questions were pointed and painful, and the hunted man was pale and shaky after his ordeal. I refused all comment. Burke, following the script at last, exercised his right to remain silent. When I had him alone, anger blotted out all pity, and I launched into a lacerating attack on him as a client. He did not speak to me, but waved me off, got into his car, and peeled away.
That night I tried to reach Burke on the phone but he wasn’t in. So I called Sandra Worthington in New York.
“Monty! I don’t like the sound of your voice. And I don’t like what I’m hearing about Brennan. How can there be so much evidence against him, if he didn’t do it? I can’t see him as a killer, I really can’t. Anything else maybe, but not that.”
“It’s been sheer unmitigated hell from day one, Sandra, what can I tell you? And between you and me, he hasn’t made it any easier on himself, or his defence team. One thing he seems to share with the least sophisticated of my clients: they all seem to think they’re protecting themselves by keeping information from their own lawyer. How wrong they are.”
“So, what’s happened now to account for this phone call?”
“The Crown brought out on cross the fact that Brennan had fathered a child born in 1963. First I heard of it. I thought he was going to have a stroke right there on the stand.”
There was a long silence, then: “I wouldn’t have thought that would faze him in the least. He didn’t care then, he wouldn’t care now. But of course, it would make him look bad in front of the jury. So that would account for his alarm.”
“I feel the same way you do about him right now, Sandra. But I have to tell you, I think it was more than that. It was obvious he found the whole subject very painful.”
“If you say so.”
“I’m sorry, Sandra. But I have to know what’s going on. He didn’t even speak to me after he limped from the stand.”
“He
didn’t speak to
you?”
“Nope.”
She sighed. “Monty, this is what I was planning to tell you when I called you over here for that second visit. Then, by the time you arrived, I had second thoughts. I’ve always kept it private. I didn’t tell the police either, in case you’re wondering. They came to see me but I told them very, very little. I don’t know where they got the information. The first time I saw you and we spoke about his ordination, I almost let it slip by saying how gratifying it would have been to bring his three-year-old child to the ordination. But of course the child was long gone by then. I gave the baby up for adoption, after all I went through to give birth. I was very ill. I didn’t tell Brennan about the pregnancy until nearly the end of my term. And then he spent half the conversation asking why I hadn’t told him as soon as I found out. I hung up on him. He didn’t come near me after that phone call. I had the baby in Connecticut. When there’s a scandal in the family — and in those days it
was
a scandal — it’s handy to have relatives who live out of state. My grandparents, bless their hearts. Anyway I had an extended stay in hospital, with a condition called eclampsia. I was out of it. That really was the only good thing — that I hardly have any memory of it all. It took me weeks to get my health back.” Her voice was laced with remembered pain and bitterness. “Not a word from Mr. Burke. He had gone on to a higher plane of existence.”