In God's House

This novel is for Scott Anthony Gastal, who changed the course of history when he became the first child to face a bishop in a court of law, testifying bravely before a judge and jury. It is also for all other survivors of clergy abuse, and for those who did not survive but died by suicide. It is for the families of all the children who were abandoned, not by their God but by their Church, as well as the many faithful who placed their trust in priests and bishops and received sacraments from the hands of criminals and men who harbored criminals. And it is for my wife, Melony, without whom neither this novel nor my life would be possible.

When I drove away from home that day, headed for the Old Bishop’s House, I stopped the car on the gravel lane fronting our property as I always did. I looked back at our house, pond, pool, gazebo, guest cottage, and horses grazing in the pasture. The weather was turning but it was beautiful, peaceful. My eyes skimmed the long run of bamboo and crepe myrtle trees that bordered the driveway. Leaves were blowing from the bent branches and tall stalks of bamboo waved wildly in the gusting winds, the outer bands of a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico. Somewhere nearby a farmer was burning a field. A light smoke with a strong scent drifted across our land. As I looked over the fields and structures, dark clouds raced across the sky, almost hugging the ground all the way out to the horizon. A storm would blow through in a matter of hours even though the hurricane was making landfall to the west in Texas. I loved rough weather and I loved this place. Now I wish I had lingered longer that last day, for I would never see this place or anything else in life in the same way again.

The tall, skinny, long-legged white bird that came from a big swamp to fish in our pond every day had been wading in the shallows when I’d had coffee on the patio earlier that morning. Our youngest child, five-year-old Sasha, was feeding the ducks in the pond, and in the distance I’d watched my wife, Kate, petting Sasha’s horse, Dreamer, while two of our dogs vied for her
attention. Our sons, Shelby and Jake, were already off to school, their departure announced by the music of Bruce Springsteen blaring from the huge speakers in Shelby’s jeep.

The old Cajun man who took care of the grounds for us, a fellow everyone called Mule because of his phenomenal physical strength and equally stubborn mind, always called our place “Ti Paradis”. The acreage was like a paradise carved out under a high ridge in a low basin where the Mississippi River had flowed eons ago.

A journalist covering a law case I was involved in had written that I was a young man who had it all. To some it seemed I had always had it all. It seemed that way to me too. As a kid all I cared about was football. I was a star quarterback on an undefeated, number-one-ranked football team. I had kicked a field goal to win our homecoming game and escorted my girlfriend, the homecoming queen, to the dance. At thirty-six, I had achieved more success than most lawyers my age, had been involved in several high-profile cases and causes and won them all. I believed this great streak of good luck would continue forever. On this morning, no one could have convinced me that one day soon I would lose everything that had ever mattered to me.

The day before, I had received a telephone call from the vicar of finance for the Catholic Diocese of Thiberville, who identified himself as Monsignor Buddy Belair. He invited me to lunch at a residence referred to as the Old Bishop’s House, a building no bishop had lived in since the forties. I assumed the purpose of the meeting was to solicit a donation for the drive to retire the debt on the new Catholic high school. The eight-million-dollar drive had been publicized in a number of front-page stories in the local newspaper.

It’s always money; they always want money, I thought. You pay a fortune to enroll your kids in their schools, and they immediately make beggars out of them, sending them home to sell raffle tickets or solicit donations.

I had never been inside the Old Bishop’s House, and had only been inside the adjacent Saint Stephen’s Cathedral for family funerals. In the ancient Saint Augustine Cemetery behind the great church there was a crypt dating from 1847 that had our family name, Chattelrault, carved in stone. It contained the remains of a Civil War general, a governor and others. My family’s connection with the diocese was a long one. It was a Chattelrault who donated the land for the cathedral, and Chattelraults had constructed Catholic churches, schools, diocesan offices and a seminary. I had relatives who were priests in the Thiberville diocese and one who was a monsignor in Rome. The Chattelrault family relationship with the Catholic faith was an integral part of my family heritage, something I took for granted, like I took a lot of things for granted that came with being a descendant of the town founder.

As a child I had been devout, serving Mass daily, riding my bike through the dark to be on the altar for early Mass in a nearly empty church. I continued to attend Mass, go to confession and refrain from eating meat on Fridays, and lived as a practicing Catholic until I ran off to a neighboring state at age nineteen and married Kate before a Justice of the Peace. My parish priest explained to Kate and me that we were now barred from receiving the sacraments because we had not been married in a church. In the same conversation, the priest twice refused to marry us in the church, citing our young ages as the reason we were barred from the sacrament of matrimony. He told us that unless we lived platonically we would be outside a state of grace, in fact “living in sin” in the eyes of the Church and God, and we would be in grave danger should we die in this state. It seemed he believed he was the arbiter of who would go to heaven, who would go to hell. If we had not been excommunicated, we were only one step removed, for we had been informed that we were no longer Catholics in good standing with the Church.

The whole of south Louisiana was a Catholic culture and we had our children baptized, later enrolling them in Catholic
schools, and occasionally we attended Mass as a family. In what I think was an act of defiance, Kate sometimes took communion. She had gloated when she learned that the priest who had lectured us and basically excommunicated us had impregnated a nun and left the priesthood, presumably to live like us, in a state of sin.

As I watched Kate petting Sasha’s horse in the pasture near the barn, I wished nothing bad had ever happened between us. A place in the country had been our dream, but in this paradise we’d built together we sometimes lived separate lives. I knew our marriage was so fragile that almost anything could break it. I felt we would divorce and believed she knew this before I did. We did marry too young, got too much money too fast, and bent all the rules we didn’t break. But we loved each other deeply and I knew our love would outlast our marriage, last to the end of our lives. Sensing these were our last days together, I felt I never wanted to leave here, never wanted to leave her.

As I closed the gate and made my way up the walk I heard a rhythmic creaking sound coming from behind a trellis of overgrown honeysuckle vines. Climbing the steps to the long, covered porch fronting the house, I discovered the source of the noise. A beautiful young woman was seated on an old cypress swing.

She smiled, stood, and took my hand. “Sister Julianne. I am the personnel director for the diocese.”

“I'm Renon Chattelrault.”

“I know you're Renon Chattelrault.”

She was young, did not look to be out of her twenties, dressed in penny loafers, dark blue stockings, a light blue skirt, and a pastel pink blouse. I tried not to stare at her dark eyes, which shone when they picked up the sunlight.

“I know. I don't look like a nun. We junked the witch's habit. Come on. I'll take you into this place priests call the powerhouse.”

The man who opened the door introduced himself as Monsignor Jean-Paul Moroux, the vicar general of the Thiberville diocese and deputy to Bishop Reynolds. He led the way to the dining room. From the back, his wobbly gait was like that of a marionette in the hands of an amateur puppeteer, bouncing and swaying from side to side. In the dining room, he sat at the head of the table and placed me on his right. His stature and commanding presence reminded me of paintings of Napoleon
Bonaparte. His face was nearly hidden by a mane of graying hair hanging over his corrugated brow. Up close, his high, round cheeks were cherubic, but it was his coal-black reptilian eyes that were the dominant feature. The monsignor's soft mouth was fixed in a half-smile of bemusement, like that of a man who knew a lot of secrets and a lot of jokes.

There were several people already seated round the table, and Monsignor Moroux made the introductions. In addition to Sister Julianne, there was the vicar of finance, Monsignor Buddy Belair, and the diocesan lawyer, Jon Bendel. There was also a man wearing a starched shirt and an impressively knotted red tie. I had never learned to knot a tie properly, which Kate always said was proof I was never supposed to be a lawyer. Turning to the man in the tie, the monsignor said, “This is Thomas Quinlan, Archbishop Donnegan's attorney from New Orleans, and next to Tom is Lloyd Lecompte, our diocesan media director.”

He gestured towards the big man seated at the far end of the table, who had an even more commanding demeanor than Monsignor Moroux, and added, “I believe we all know Joe Rossi.”

We did. Rossi held the sort of political power that could punish enemies as well as reward friends. He raised and contributed enormous sums of money to both political campaigns and Catholic charities, and as a result was an integral part of everything in this part of the state that comprised any part of the power structure.

Moroux made his last introduction. “Finally, this is Renon Chattelrault, who we are all here to speak with.”

The confusion I felt was disorienting.
Why were they all here to speak with me?

I noticed Rossi twisting his napkin in his hands, seemingly impatient for Monsignor Moroux to finish the introductions.

Monsignor Moroux bowed his head and seemed about to offer a blessing for the meal when robust Joe Rossi interrupted the moment and led off with his booming voice. “Renon, the Church has a problem with a priest and the priest needs a lawyer and we want you to represent him.”

The silence lasted longer than the sentence. Then Monsignor Jean-Paul Moroux spoke. “It seems our priest has done some things that have the attention of District Attorney Sean Robinette. The DA has asked that we have a lawyer meet with him on behalf of the priest tomorrow morning. We have no such lawyer. The diocese has counsel in Jon. Tom represents the archdiocese. Our priest has no lawyer of his own.”

I stayed quiet while a black couple served the salad.

“Renon, let me get to the point.” Jon Bendel addressed me directly. “This priest has done some things that may constitute serious crimes. He may well be guilty. But what is certain is the Church, diocese, and Bishop Reynolds are absolutely innocent. If this priest did these things he is accused of, I imagine he will fall on his sword for the good of everyone. I mean… if it comes to that.”

Bendel never took his eyes off me. “What we need to know is whether you would agree to represent this priest. And we need to know that you will work closely with us throughout your representation of the priest. This matter potentially has damaging ramifications for the bishop, diocese and archdiocese, and for the Catholic Church, far beyond any ramifications it might have to the priest who would be your client.”

“What did this priest do?” I asked.

No one responded.

“What's the priest's name?” I asked.

No one responded.

“What parish is this priest in?”

No response.

Lloyd Lecompte, the diocesan public relations fellow, spoke in a stammer. I wondered what had happened to his voice. I recognized his name. He was a retired radio announcer from the only radio station Thiberville had when I was a kid. “Renon, ya… you… you can… can't talk to the p-p-press.” After taking a breath, his speech smoothed out. “Any statement about this case will be drawn up by my office.”

I was silent.

Lecompte asked, “Are you related to Monsignor Chattelrault in Rome?”

I nodded. “Yes, I think the monsignor is a cousin or something. Look, I don't want to… Well, I mean… no one will tell me this priest's name or what he has allegedly done or where he lives. No one will tell me anything, and the only legal issue that has been raised thus far is the forfeiture of my first amendment right to freedom of speech. Someone is going to have to say more.”

No one spoke.

“What's the secret?” I asked.

Monsignor Moroux wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned back in his chair. “Well, of course, you are right… it is a secret. The situation is this, Mr. Chattelrault. Some boys have claimed Father did sexual things with them. Father is now away in a treatment facility.”

Monsignor Buddy Belair spoke up. “Of course, as soon as we knew what the children were claiming, we sent Father far away from here to get help. The diocese is offering to take care of the children, to pay all their therapy bills, and we are doing this voluntarily.”

“How many boys? What ages?” I asked.

“We-ell,” Monsignor Moroux drawled, and dragged an extra syllable into the simple word. “There are two sets of boys. They were all about seven to ten years old when these things occurred. The claims of the first set of boys – there were six of them – are settled and those settlements are sealed in the courthouse vault in Bayou Saint John. With the second set… we-ell… originally, all eleven of the children in this second group were represented by one of the lawyers that settled the first batch of claims. Now it seems one of the families, the Rachous, has gone to a new… a different lawyer… and their new lawyer has gone to the district attorney. The district attorney telephoned me and requested a meeting tomorrow morning with legal counsel representing the priest. As I said, there is no such person. We want you for the job.”

Jon Bendel shifted, leaned toward me and said, “Renon, no priest in the United States has ever been prosecuted in open court before a jury for sex crimes against children. No bishop or diocese has ever been drug into court because of the sex crimes of a priest. And none of that is going to happen here. Not on my watch. We bought the first six claims, sealed the settlements. We buried the cases in the vault of the Bayou Saint John courthouse. And we will buy and bury these eleven claims too.”

I was aware that Jonathan Bendel, diocesan counsel, always spoke with that kind of certitude. He could lose a trial and then give an interview to a television reporter on the courthouse steps that convinced the viewing audience he had won.

The main course was served, a small piece of fish and some potatoes and peas.

“What kind of money was paid to settle the first six cases?” I asked.

“Confidential,” Jon Bendel said.

“Oh, hell, Jon,” Joe Rossi blurted out. Turning to me, he said, “Renon, you got a right to know what we're dealing with. This is kinda like a lawyer–client conference; everything said here stays here. Six kids cost over three and a half million.”

Three and a half million, I thought. No way. What the hell did the priest do to those kids that would justify paying millions of dollars in hush money? Maybe they do have more money than God.

“Who's the new lawyer who went to the district attorney?” I asked.

“Kane Chaisson,” said Tom Quinlan, the archbishop's lawyer.

Almost everyone in the room would have heard of Kane Chaisson, a formidable and flamboyant lawyer, a force to be reckoned with. I had once heard someone say, “Kane Chaisson would shoot his mother and take bets on which way she would fall.” However compliant the first set of lawyers had been with the Church in sealing secretive proceedings, getting paid to keep it all secret, and protecting the diocese from a public scandal, it was sure Kane Chaisson would never play that game.

Rossi almost stood up. “Chaisson – Jazzon. It doesn't matter who that Rachou family has as a lawyer. We can control the district attorney and the press. We just need a lawyer to go to some meetings with the DA on behalf of the priest. A few meetings with the DA and it will all be over with. We elected Sean Robinette as DA and re-elected him three times. He owes us, and Robinette is not about to indict a Catholic priest, embarrass Bishop Reynolds.”

Jonathan Bendel said, “Sean Robinette can make this go away if he's talked to right and he will be talked to right.”

“What did this priest do with those boys? What kind of sexual acts?” I asked, looking for any kind of factual information.

Jon Bendel was becoming frustrated. “Renon, if you agree to become counsel of record then we can divulge those things to you.”

I let my fork drop onto the fish on my plate. “Jon, do you think for a minute I am going to agree to be the lawyer for a man whose name I don't know? A priest who has done things I am in the dark about? And agree that I cannot speak to the press, and have to understand that all the real negotiations with the DA are going to be handled somewhere over my head or behind my back? You really think I am going to agree to this? Who in this room thought I would agree to this? I want to know.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the nun, Sister Julianne, lean back in her chair. It seemed she was suppressing a grin.

Monsignor Moroux jumped into the breach. “No, no. Not at all. We only want you to know you will have all of us supporting you if you undertake this case. That is why we are all here. The bishop needs your help.”

For the first time I realized the bishop was not in the room. As the plates were picked up, a slice of cake was placed before each of us.

“Lemon pound cake,” Monsignor Moroux said. “The bishop's favorite. He had it sent over.”

Lemon pound cake. The bishop's favorite
. The words reverberated in my head. We were discussing one of the bishop's
priests sexually molesting seventeen children and his sole contribution was lemon pound cake?

Thomas Quinlan, Archbishop Donnegan's lawyer, took over. “The only wildcard is that Kane Chaisson has filed a motion to unseal his case involving the Rachou boy and the child's parents. Chaisson wants to blow the lid off of this. The hearing is a week from Monday, September 3.”

Rossi stood up and laid his napkin on his plate. “Look, Renon is right.” Rossi looked straight at me. “You've got a right to know everything. The priest's name is Father Francis Dubois and he was in Amalie near Cypress Bay until last fall, when the bishop removed him. He's obviously some kind of mental defective. We have only two problems. We have to get a lawyer to represent the priest to satisfy the DA and get the criminal thing over with fast. And we have to keep Chaisson's Rachou suit sealed or make sure what the newspaper and television people learn of all this does not reflect badly on the diocese or the bishop because no one in the diocese has done anything wrong. The priest may be guilty, but Bishop Reynolds is innocent.”

I spoke softly. “Joe, I don't know who's guilty, who's innocent. But out of curiosity, how are you going to keep the media out of this?”

Rossi lit a cigar and puffed on it several times. Through the smoky haze around his head he said, “Son, even
The New York Times
won't piss on the Pope.” Then he turned to the nun. “Sorry, Sister. Forgive my language. Let's eat our cake.” He laid his lit cigar on the edge of the dining table and started in on the cake.

I addressed Rossi again. “Something like this can't be kept a secret forever.”

“Well,” Rossi grumbled, “you get around a lot, Renon. You hear all the gossip around these parts, and you never heard a damned word about any of this until now. We paid for the silence of the families of the six kids involved last year. It's been a damn secret for over a year and it can continue to be a secret till hell
freezes over. The Church keeps all our secrets, son, and we can damned well keep theirs.”

After the lunch broke up I made my way to the sidewalk across the street from the Old Bishop's House. Joe Rossi caught up to me and grabbed my arm. I had known Rossi since I was a child. As an adult, I came to realize he was among the most powerful men in the state.

Never had I seen such a menacing look on Rossi's face. “Nobody, Renon. Not Kathryn, your wife. Nobody can know what we discussed in that room in there. You talk… talk to anybody, you deal with me first, God second. You understand?”

I just looked at him and at his threat. A moment later he loosened his grip on my arm and let go. I watched him walk to his car and drive away. Alone in the street, I walked to my car, clicking the release on the locks. As I was opening the door, Sister Julianne pedaled her bicycle over. She looked like she belonged on a college campus, not in a room with those men.