In God's House (40 page)

I was standing in the wide hall on the fourth floor of the Thiberville courthouse, waiting for DA Sean Robinette to arrive. We had been called by Judge Labat for a conference in his chambers after hours.

Sean approached with a slow gait, head down. His hair was uncombed, windblown, and his tie was hanging loose around his neck. His face was deeply lined, as if he had aged overnight. His voice was hoarse. “I lost a witness last night in my criminal case against your client. The Courville boy in Amalie used his father's gun and shot himself in the head. He was on life support for a short while. I'm just back from the funeral home. Fortunately, he was part of a sealed settlement and no one in the media got wind he was connected to the case, thank God.”

I leaned against the marble wall.

“I visited with his parents at the funeral home. The child had asked them where they'd been last Wednesday night. They told him they met with me and the other parents about the trial. He was scared he would have to go in front of people and tell what happened. And then, at suppertime Sunday, he saw a newscast with old footage of you and Dubois getting in a police cruiser last year at Chaisson's. The boy apparently knew you – you came to his home, they said. Mr. Courville thinks the child realized you knew the priest and was scared you would bring the priest to his home. That's what they think, Ren. They heard a shot behind the
house and found him in a corral with his horse. He was brain dead on arrival at the hospital in Bayou Saint John.”

I hung my head, staring at my shoes, tasting the salt of my tears. I knew it would not have been any different had I held the gun and pulled the trigger myself. I had pushed things too far. My mind raced in reverse. Had I done what Rossi and the others wanted in the beginning, maybe Dubois would be dead now by suicide, but Lil' Will Courville would be riding Blackhorse bareback.

“There are a team of school-board psychologists from three areas down in Amalie now. They are worried about copycat suicides, more dead children.”

Sean handed me a handkerchief. I wiped my tears.

“Come on, Ren, can't we stop this now? Enough is enough. We have a lot of kids whose lives have been destroyed. Now we have a dead little boy. Can't we shut this down now? You go in Labat's chambers and tell the judge you're giving me a guilty plea to a single life sentence. I can tell the families this tomorrow night, and maybe… maybe it will be the end at last. This child is dead, Ren, dead.” He paused. “I can't remember the child's name.”

“Will,” I said. “His name was Will.”

“The boy's mother told me they know this is your fault. I told her it was your fault. It is your fault. She said for me to tell you they never want to hear from you again, or the nun and priest you used to bring to their home.”

“Gimme a few minutes, Sean. Will ya?”

He nodded.

“Tell the judge I'll be back. I need some time.”

“Take all the time you need, Renon, but for Christ's sake, when you come back, do the right thing. There is only one right thing. Shut it down.”

I made my way to the large magnolia tree outside the courthouse. Having attended too many funerals and buried too many friends and family members, I was no stranger to death. But no death had
affected me like Will's. I was responsible. My decision to represent Father Francis Dubois as I had, to fight for Dubois against huge odds, to bring things to this point, had caused the death of a child. I walked around the courthouse square.

My sorrow over the loss of the little boy was only exceeded by the rage I felt against my client, Francis Dubois. By the time I reached the broad steps of the courthouse again, I knew what I had to do. My heart was wrecked by sorrow and, following my heart, I wanted to throw Dubois under the train, give him the fate he deserved. But my mind was locked in the law, my obligation to defend and assert the rights of my client. I knew I had no choice. My guts burned and churned.

Judge Eloi Labat had originally been appointed to fill a vacancy in the judiciary by a governor from north Louisiana who didn't know any lawyers in Thiberville. Sean Robinette had played a hand in the appointment as Labat was serving as one of his assistant prosecutors at the time. The judge owed a lot to the DA – everything. Over the next fifteen years, Judge Labat was re-elected over and over, something of a mystery to some members of the Bar. When he was on the bench it was like having an extra prosecutor in the courtroom – impartiality and fairness were as foreign to him as the Constitution and Criminal Code.

There was something called Louisiana Law and there was something called Labat's Law and they were not altogether the same thing. Though he looked like the cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn, with his shock of reddish grey hair and his huge wingtip shoes, Labat's head was filled with whirring razor blades that cut lawyers he did not like to pieces. And he did not like me.

We were the only ones on the fourth floor of the courthouse except for the janitorial crew. As we settled in his cramped chambers, the only sound was the banging of trash cans and the laughter of the cleaning crew.

“Renon, I've been talking to Sean about this for some time, and I figured it was time to include you in the discussions,” Judge Labat said.

In any other jurisdiction, a lawyer would have been appalled to learn that a presiding judge had been having private conversations with a prosecutor about a pending case. But nothing Eloi Labat said could surprise any lawyer who had already appeared in his court.

“There are four things I want to discuss: the gag order I signed today, arrangements for the media during the trial, the way I will handle the testimony of the children, and the length of the trial.”

“Your Honor, is this our pre-trial conference?” I asked.

“I've set aside this hour each Tuesday until the trial date. I think we'll be able to have seven of these meetings. There aren't going to be any last-minute histrionics in this case. We will iron out every detail in advance. Sean will meet with the parents of the child victims each Wednesday night. If there's anything that happens in one of our Tuesday meetings that the parents should know, Sean will be able to tell them on Wednesday.”

Judge Labat and I had tangled enough times for both of our lifetimes. I really did not want to lock and load on him now. “Your Honor, while it is true that Sean's job as district attorney is to serve the people, and it is right for him to work closely with the victims, I'm not sure it's the court's role—”

“Mr. Chattelrault, the court will define its role in these proceedings for itself without your interference or influence.”

Sean said, “Eloi, to get back to your agenda, specifically the media…”

The judge became animated. “The clerk of court told me he's had phone calls from foreign press, Houston, even New York. People want to make arrangements to rent space in the courthouse, install phones and some kind of machine. I don't want the foreign press making a circus out of my trial. I won't have it. Nobody's going to talk to them. Maybe they'll get bored and go back to where they belong.”

I closed the legal pad that had been open on my lap. “Judge, I won't continue this unless and until we have a court reporter present to transcribe our comments.”

The judge arched his eyebrows. “Mr. Chattelrault, this court has entered the gag order today.” He picked up three legal sheets stapled together and handed them to me. “The original was filed with the clerk of court at four this afternoon. It is now the order of the court. Anyone who violates this order will be cited for contempt and jailed. No one will discuss this with the media, not our local people or the foreign press.”

I couldn't believe this man. First, Judge Labat chose not to notice that I had said I would not go on with the meeting. And I thought it bizarre that he considered any press outside of Thiberville to be foreign media.

The judge continued. “I am awaiting three bids by video firms. What I have specified is the design and construction of a system where cameras will be installed in the small courtroom behind the big courtroom where we will be. Video monitors will be put in the large courtroom – one for me, one for the prosecution table, one for the defense table, plus a large monitor for the jury and two large monitors for the audience. The sound will be engineered so the dialogue of counsel and the court can be heard in the small courtroom as well as by all in the large courtroom.”

“I'm lost,” I said.

“Let's cut the crap, Mr. Chattelrault. I know your gamble is that if you force a trial, the district attorney will not be able to produce any witnesses, any of the child victims, because their parents will refuse to let them testify. Sean told me one of his potential witnesses committed suicide. I know you now believe no other parents will allow their children to testify. Well, you're not going to get away with your gamble. You're not going to play games with me, sir. I will not traumatize these children by having them face the defendant in court or testify before a room packed with strangers. When Sean calls a child to testify, the child will be escorted by a female bailiff with his two parents, his psychologist
and whomever else he may wish to have with him – escorted to the small courtroom. There he will take the stand and the female bailiff will administer the oath. The child will hear your questions and Sean's questions and the child's responses will be seen and heard by everyone in the big courtroom.”

It was classic Labat, Labat's law. In less than five minutes he had vitiated two of my client's constitutionally guaranteed rights, freedom of speech and the right to meaningfully confront one's accuser. I braced myself and confronted the judge.

“Judge, you filed a gag order, but all this other stuff you're talking about is not documented. I don't want to go any further until you bring in a court reporter to record your comments and ours.”

In one movement the judge both stiffened and smiled sardonically. “Mr. Chattelrault, you are right – this is the last meeting of this kind we will have. Nothing in the code requires that we have these conferences. Sean and I can plan this trial without your input if you are going to be obstinate. Sean tells me he believes once the jury is seated that he can put on his entire case for the state in five days, maybe as few as three days. We all pretty much know what Sean's witness list is – the child victims and an expert on the issue you raised in filing an insanity plea. Who will your witnesses be, Mr. Chattelrault, and how long do you expect it will take to put on the defense?”

“Your Honor, I expect my end of the case will take a long time, weeks and weeks. Maybe months.”

The judge stood up, red-faced in apparent rage. “I… I… I know,” he stammered. “This priest is going to prison for the rest of his life… and to hell after that. I know about this stuff. I… I… I know. I was an altar boy in my parish and the priest there…” The judge turned a purplish red color and walked out of his chambers.

My God, Judge Labat was abused by a priest
, I thought.

Sean and I walked down the steps in silence. Under the old magnolia tree, we stood looking at each other. He said, “Renon,
the things that make you great as a lawyer make you a prick of a human being. You and I – we'll never forget this day. It won't pass.”

I got Julie on my car phone just as she came in from her afternoon run. When I told her about Will, she began crying so hard that I could not understand what she was saying. She eventually caught her breath, and said, “I want you to come over here. I don't think it's good for either of us to be alone.”

“Thanks, but I think I need to be alone. I'm sorry.”

I found myself driving on country roads, kind of heading for Coteau, my former home, a place where I had felt safe. As I meandered alongside a bayou, I passed horses in pastures and could see the scene at the Courvilles in my mind. I pictured the paddock, and the Tennessee Walker, Blackhorse, that Will had said a last goodbye to.

I did stop by Julie's. She was on the front porch, like she was waiting for me even though I had said I was not coming over. I motioned for her to get in the car.

It was dark when we got to the stadium. I had her climb behind me. She followed me to the top, my secret refuge. Trying to be lighthearted, she said, “Now, do we jump?”

I shook my head. “How did it come to this? Was I playing to my own ego as a lawyer – big case, a lot of exposure and all that crap? Did I lose sight of what matters? Hell, does anyone around this Church stuff have clean hands? I was working for a client who should be dead, and now the boy I wanted to save is gone.”

She brushed my hair back. “Ren, there is nothing I can say…”

“There's no forgiveness for something like this.”

Julie leaned closer to me. “God has his hands on you.”

I knew she believed that.

We were sitting next to each other. I leaned against the railing. “I've never been this confused. I've never been so tired. I've never had any doubts – not about anything in my whole life. I know I've always had faith – a belief in God, in myself.”

“You still have that faith, Ren.”

“No, no. I don't… I don't think I have faith in anything anymore.”

The dark clouds covering the night sky opened up, and burst above us. I thought the hard rain falling on my face would cover my tears, but she knew. I had now cried twice in front someone else.

“I can't tell Sasha. She's gonna want to know why she can't go see Will anymore. What do you tell a little kid, Julie? How do you tell her that her buddy killed himself with a gun? What do I say when she asks me why Will killed himself?”