Guilt Page 4

  He showed no sign that he was bothered by having to repeat the question. 'I was just wondering how much she might have told you about the man.'

  Christina was sitting on the front edge of the ragged couch, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands folded in front of her. Her hair, still wet from the rain, hung in front of her face. 'Almost nothing,' she said. 'She knew him. He lived near her, maybe in her apartment building. She definitely felt that if she moved she could get away from him, but she couldn't afford to move.'

  Glitsky nodded. 'And she didn't want to press charges.'

  'I'd hoped we were getting to there, but no, not by – not in time.'

  'And no names, not an initial, a nickname…?'

  She shook her head. 'No, nothing, I don't think. I wish… I'm sorry.'

  'Did you take any notes I might look at? Maybe there was something.

  'I know I took some. I'll go check. It wouldn't have been much, but maybe…' The Sergeant's face had clouded – he was staring blankly out through the fogged glass, out into the desultory traffic on Haight. 'Can I get you anything?' she asked. 'Cup of coffee or something?'

  Glitsky didn't answer.

  She touched his arm. 'Sergeant?'

  Back with her. 'Sure. Sorry. Just thinking.'

  'Are you all right?'

  Suddenly the face wasn't terrifying at all. What she saw was sadness. Tm a little distracted,' he said. 'My wife's sick.' Then: 'Some tea would be nice, thanks.'

  It still wasn't noon.

  Christina was just tired, she told herself. After all, with the party, she'd been awake until nearly two last night, then had her nightly argument with Joe. This morning, then, her ashes and the long, strangely emotional breakfast with Mark Dooher, her car not starting, the neo-hippie woman in the park, Sam's disapproval.

  Then Tania Willows and Abe Glitsky with whatever his sorrow was – his sick wife.

  Suddenly, the rain launching a new attack behind her back against her grimy window, the lights off as she sat alone in her tiny cubicle, something broke in her. She wiped the back of her hand roughly against her eyes – as a child would – trying to will away the tears, but they kept coming.

  She was just tired.

  This – the sudden collapse – hadn't happened in almost two years. She wasn't going to let herself think it was anything to do with the baby she'd lost, with her past. Not that again. That was behind her and she wasn't going to let it get to her anymore. It was the events of the morning, that was all.

  She'd just toughen up. That was it, that was what she'd do. Swiping again at her face, sniffling, she got up from her desk, pulling her Gore-Tex up around her face. The rain would hide the tears. No one would see.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  His Excellency didn't have to explain it all to Dooher, but if it made him feel better, Mark would let him go on – he was the client, and every hour was $350. They were sitting in the Archbishop's office, above the children's playground at Mission Dolores. Their informal meetings always took place here, in the serenity of the laughter of children that floated up into Flaherty's sanctum sanctorum.

  Although the Archdiocese employed a full-time attorney of its own, its mandate was far too broad for one man to do it all, and so a lot of the work needed to be farmed out to private firms. And over the years, Dooher's firm had come to specialize in the Church's secular affairs - dozens upon dozens of slip and fall cases, liability, property management, personnel.

  Dooher, personally, had gotten close to Flaherty not only for his ability to handle the tougher cases diplomatically and with dispatch, but because there was an unstated but perfectly understood ruthlessness in each of the men.

  Both got things done. Sometimes what the Archbishop needed to accomplish was better handled outside of his office. Dooher was unofficial but defacto consigliere.

  Also like Dooher, Flaherty was an athletic man who looked a decade younger than he was. Still, at fifty-seven, he was running about fifty percent in his squash games (non-billable) with Dooher. Here, in private, the Archbishop wore tasseled black loafers, black slacks, a white dress shirt. Dooher, deeply molded – nearly imbedded – into the red leather chair, had his coat off, his tie loosened.

  'I don't know why these things always take me by surprise,' Flaherty was saying. 'I keep expecting better of my fellow man, and they keep letting me down. You'd think I'd learn.'

  Dooher nodded. 'The alternative, of course, is to expect nothing of your fellow man.'

  'I can't live like that. I can't help it. I believe that deep down, we're all made in the image of God, so our nature can't be bad. Am I wrong, Mark? I can't be wrong.'

  Dooher thought it best not to remind His Excellency that he had predicted exactly what would happen back in the early stages of the decision-making process over the current lawsuit. But he'd been over-ridden.

  'You're not all wrong, Jim. You've got to take it case by case.'

  Flaherty was standing by the open window, looking down over the schoolyard. He turned to his lawyer. 'As neat a turn away from philosophy and to the business at hand as one would expect.' He pulled a chair up. 'Okay, where are we today?'

  Reaching down for his props, though he didn't need them, Dooher pulled his briefcase from the floor, opened it, and extracted a yellow manila folder labeled Felicia Diep.

  Mrs Diep had come to the United States in 1976 from Saigon, a young single mother with a substantial nest egg from her deceased husband in Vietnam. She'd settled in the lower Mission District of San Francisco, where she became a regular parishioner at St Michael's Parish and, not incidentally, a long-time paramour of its pastor, Father Peter Slocum.

  Over the course of the next twenty years, Mrs Diep gave Father Slocum something in the order of $50,000 for one thing and another, and all might have been well had not the good priest decided to take his promotion to Monsignor and move away from her, down the peninsula to Menlo Park.

  He had abandoned her and she wanted her money back, so she decided to go to a young lawyer in her community named Victor Trang.

  Trang wasn't in the medical field, but if he was, he would have qualified as an 'ambulance chaser'. Barely making a living in his first three years after graduating from one of the night schools that taught law, he took the case, hoping for no more than his fee of one third of the fifty grand Mrs Diep wanted.

  He sued the Archdiocese for fraud – Father Slocum wasn't celibate as promised, and he'd taken Mrs Diep's money under false pretenses, promising her over the years that he would eventually leave the priesthood and marry her.

  This was where Dooher got involved, and it hadn't been a big item on his plate. One of his associates took care of the preliminary motions in response to the lawsuit, then passed them up to him. He and Flaherty had determined that they would offer ten grand as a settlement and if Mrs Diep didn't accept it, they would go to court and take their chances.

  So in the middle of the previous week, Dooher had called Victor Trang, conveying the settlement offer. It was then he discovered that things had changed, and he'd arranged this meeting with Flaherty.

  The Archbishop's face did not exactly go pale, but he was rocked. He lifted his eyes from the folder. 'Three million dollars?'

  The lawyer nodded. 'Trang's got nothing else to do, Jim. The Church has deep pockets so he went looking.'

  Flaherty was trying to read and listen at the same time. 'Not very far, it seems.'

  'No.'

  'Slocum was sleeping with the daughter, too?'

  'Veronica, now nineteen. That's Trang's story. To say nothing of several other immigrants whose names he didn't provide. He may be bluffing.'

  Flaherty closed the folder abruptly. 'I know Slocum. It's possible Trang's not bluffing. This is nowhere near the first allegation.'

  This was not welcome news. Dooher leaned forward. 'If you knew some of this, why'd you make him a Monsignor?'

  A crooked smile. 'I didn't know it. They were allegations we'd heard. We thought we'd remove
him from the temptation, put him where he didn't have the same freedom of movement, give him more responsibility.'

  A shake of the head. 'And thereby change his nature?'

  'I know, Mark, I know. My nature's the problem. I believe people. I trust them.'

  'Well,' Dooher slapped his palms on his knees, 'that's why you've hired a top gun like myself. I trust no one.' He pointed down at the folder, still on Flaherty's lap. 'You get to the end of that?'

  'No. I stopped at the three million.'

  Dooher took it. 'Okay, I can give you the short version. It gets worse.' He went on to explain what Trang had told him last week on the phone. The young upstart would be initiating to conduct a series of investigations with other immigrants in San Francisco to determine with what kind of frequency these clerical abuses were occurring. He expected to discover that the Archdiocese systematically condoned this kind of behavior from their priests. 'He's calling it a policy of tolerance, Jim. He's going to amend the complaint to name you personally.'

  The Archbishop was back at his window, looking down at the children. 'Can we have Slocum killed?' Quickly, he turned, hand out. 'I'm joking, of course.'

  'Of course.'

  'But all kidding aside, Mark, what are we going to do?'

  Flaherty wasn't having his best year.

  Six months earlier, after an extensive two-year study by the Archdiocesan Pastoral Planning Commission had confirmed their predicted results – he'd finally bitten the bullet and announced the closure of the ten least financially viable parishes in the city. He knew that the Archdiocese would not survive into the twenty-first century if it didn't take steps now. The city had taken a hard line after the World Series earthquake and passed an ordinance that assessed the Archdiocese $120 million for retrofitting their unreinforced masonry churches. (Dooher had worked his magic to lower the bill down to $70 million, but it might as well have been $3 zillion for all the Church could afford to pay even that.)

  The plain fact – and it broke Flaherty's good heart – was that the Archdiocese couldn't afford to keep the smaller parishes operating with attendance down at Masses throughout the city – Holy Family Church out in North Beach, for example, averaged only seventy-five people, total, for four Masses on Sundays. And there were really no significant private donations to offset the appallingly low Sunday offerings. But after the closures were announced, a firestorm of protest had developed. Flaherty had even heard from Rome.

  The problem that Flaherty had not foreseen (and Dooher had) was that perennial San Francisco two-headed serpent, ethnicity and money. Most of the parishes that had been closed were those in the poorest areas – Hunters Point, the lower Mission District, the Western Addition, the outer Sunset, Balboa Park. So Flaherty was widely vilified for abandoning the poor and what had been a purely financial move had been totally misinterpreted.

  Flaherty had also believed that the Catholics in the closed parishes would simply move to other buildings for their worship, and would be accepted in those new locales by the other Catholics who already worshiped there.

  'That is truly an ecumenical theory, Jim, and in a perfect world, that would surely happen,' Dooher had said. 'But my prediction is that my fellow parishioners' – St Emydius, in St Francis Wood – 'are simply not going to offer the kiss of peace to the Vietnamese community from St Michael's that's going to descend upon them. It's not going to happen.'

  Flaherty responded – as he always did – that people were better than Dooher gave them credit for. The Commission had made its recommendations – it had not been Flaherty's decision alone. The people would get used to it; it could actually be a force for growth, for advancement of the whole Catholic community.

  'Well, yes, Jim, I guess you're right. It could go that way,' Dooher had finally said, thinking, 'and I'm the King of Ethiopia.'

  And now Trang was threatening to name Flaherty in a lawsuit contending that he tolerated fraud and licentiousness among his priests. Before all of these problems had begun, there was a rumor that Flaherty had been on the short list to be named a Cardinal. He had confided to Dooher that he had dreams of being the first American Pope. Now all of that, perhaps even his immediate survival as Archbishop, was at stake.

  He was at his desk now, moving items randomly, nerves showing. 'But Trang hasn't yet amended the complaint?'

  Pacing, Dooher stopped. 'That's why we're talking here, Jim. I need to head this off. The guy's obviously looking for press, make his name in the community, bring in some clients. I've got to talk sense to him.'

  'What are you going to say?'

  'I'll just tell him we'd be grateful for his cooperation. He knows – you know there wasn't any policy here. We've got to get him off this, Jim, or at the very least you can forget about your red hat.'

  Flaherty pulled himself up in his chair. 'How grateful?'

  Dooher clasped his hands in front of him. 'Settle for six hundred thousand, if it goes that high.'

  'Lord…'

  'And a gag order. No press conferences. No "conscience of the community" nonsense. Trang pockets two hundred thousand dollars. Mrs Diep gets a nice return on her fifty grand and her broken heart. Everybody's happy.'

  The Archbishop shook his head. Tm not. We start at six hundred?' Dooher tried to keep his tone light. 'Jim, this is Mark Dooher you're talking to. We start by offering to break Trang's legs. Hopefully we stop a long way before six.'

  Flaherty nodded. 'A long way if you can.'

  Dooher bowed slightly from the waist. 'I understand,' he said. 'I'll take care of it.'

  'You're not actually seeing her.'

  'Wes, I ran into her at church. That's all.'

  'At church. That's very good.' Wes Farrell lowered his voice a notch. 'The night after your party, which she happened to attend because her boyfriend got himself invited? Markus, we're running into a critical coincidence factor here.'

  Wes Farrell had his feet up on the desk in his small office. Behind him, through wooden slats, rain beat against the window. Dooher was continuing with the fairy-tale version of his story about Christina, and Farrell finally stopped him.

  'This is all good stuff, Mark. I mean it. And because I am your longstanding friend, I believe every word of it. However, I will offer one word of advice, lawyer to lawyer.'

  'What?'

  'Don't try it on anybody else. It sounds suspiciously like a rationalizing crock, although I know in my heart of hearts – because you would never lie to me – that it couldn't possibly be. How did she look?'

  Dooher crossed his hands behind his head, considering. 'Who, in your opinion, is the all-around best-looking woman in the world? Face, body…' an expansive gesture '… the whole schmeer. Everything.'

  Farrell thought a moment. 'Demi Moore.'

  Dooher nodded. 'Well, Demi Moore is a dog next to Christina Carrera. Even with wet hair and ashes on her forehead.'

  'I've never seen Demi like that,' Farrell said. 'Usually, when we go out, after she ditches Bruce, she dresses up, puts on some makeup, stuff like that. Come to think of it, I wonder if she's why Lydia's divorcing me. If she found out about Demi and me?'

  'That could be it,' Dooher said. 'Those damn paparazzi.'

  Dooher cracked a grin. 'Your fantasy life is much too rich for you to be a good lawyer.'

  Farrell pointed across the room. 'Says the man who meets his associate's fiancee at church. What do you plan to do with her, if I might ask?'

  A shrug, as though he'd never considered the question. 'I don't know. I'm thinking of hiring her.' At Farrell's expression, he added, 'Just as a clerk. She's law review. Pretty sharp kid, actually.'

  Farrell pointed again, 'I must tell you, this is fire.'

  'It's all innocent, Wes. I swear. Nothing's going on.'

  'So do yourself a favor and get another clerk.'

  'We're going to have ten other clerks. Christina's just going to be one of them.'

  Farrell scratched his chin. 'Oh boy,' he said. 'Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.'

&
nbsp; 'I'm so worried about Mark. He's just not been himself.'

  Lydia Farrell – Wes's wife – threw an 'Oh, please' expression at Sheila Dooher over the rim of her china cup.

  The two women were in the glass-enclosed breakfast nook with the French countryside motif, above which the driving rain of the earlier morning had turned to a romantic Normandy drizzle. At the look, Sheila said, 'Come on, Lyd, they're not all bad. Men, I mean.'

  Lydia put her cup down. 'I didn't say they were. You know I don't think Wes has anything bad going against him. He's just got nothing going, period. Either direction. Against, for, sideways. Mark, I don't know.'

  'Mark's a good man, Lyd. That counts.'

  Once, in the very early days, Mark had subtly but very definitely come on to Lydia, his best friend's wife. When she'd called him on it, he'd backed off, saying in his charming way that she must have misunderstood something, he was sorry. But she knew she hadn't misunderstood a thing.

  She'd never mentioned it to Wes or to Sheila. On some level she was flattered, even amused by it – to have something on the great Mark Dooher, who obviously thought she was attractive enough to run that risk. Imagine!

  But she had decided opinions about his inherent goodness.

  Still, Sheila was her friend. They'd been through moves and children and schools and their husbands' careers together, and she deserved a listen.

  'I'm sorry. You're right. Good counts. I'm just a little snippy today. I'm seeing Sarah' – her divorce lawyer – 'tomorrow, and I want to be in shape. I'm always tempted to be so nice, let Wes have something I've got a legal right to. So Sarah told me, "Start thinking hate thoughts the day before. Think of all the shitty things he's done, the times he hasn't shown up when he said he would, the dinners that got cold, the shirts you've ironed, to say nothing about… more personal things. You'll never regret it." Sarah's a jewel.'

  'I never want to go through that.'

  'Well, I didn't either, dear, but divorce is like war. If you're in one, you'd better win. Still, you and Mark aren't going to get divorced.'