In God's House (8 page)

On the gulf coast of South Louisiana, the locals called the great floating fields of the marshes ‘the lost places’. For years, men had only been able to navigate the area with machines; machines to kill animals and extract oil and gas from beneath the surface. No man ever walked this marshland until a few years ago, when local trappers and oil-field workers in airboats and mud boats began to see a man crawling through the marsh in the distance. No one knew him. They called him the hunter.

The hunter had come to the marsh late that day, about noon, to hunt ducks out of season. The brown, brackish marshes glimmered in the autumn light, and the tall, unrooted marsh meadows swayed in the breeze. Alligators sunned themselves on soggy mounds. Everything in the marsh was moving, nothing had migrated or gone into hibernation. Underfoot, the land was soft silt, soaked by the gentle tides of a salty sea and washed by fresh water fed from bayous. Walking through the black, rancid,
chest-high
mud required enormous physical strength. As the hunter made his way, big black, blood-sucking mosquitoes covered his face, hands and arms.

The hunter came upon a small pond where a single greenhead mallard floated lazily on the surface. He raised his shotgun and blasted the duck at such close range that he blew it out of the
pond. As he reached for what was left of the bird, a huge nutria rat exploded out of the grass and hit the hunter hard enough to shake his balance. The rat’s long, orange teeth locked onto his thick hunting vest. In a blinding movement, the hunter drove a knife through the big rat’s throat, dropped it to the mud and violently slashed it into unrecognizable shreds.

As the hunter slowly sloshed his way to the earthen levee where he’d parked his car, a thick water moccasin swam toward him. He froze, sinking deeper into the silt until the black snake was level with his face. The snake came straight at him, slid over his shoulder. He smiled as the viper’s heavy, hard body rubbed against his neck.

The hunter loved to kill, but he always allowed snakes to live.

The hunter had just walked from his church in Amalie to his rectory after evening services when his phone rang and Monsignor Moroux commanded him to come to the chancery in Thiberville immediately.

As Father Dubois pulled his black Chevy Suburban into a parking space near the plaza between the cathedral and chancery, the headlights caught the lone figure of Monsignor Jean-Paul Moroux standing near the angel fountain. He had his back to the street and was staring at the Saint Augustine Cemetery that abutted the land where Saint Stephen’s Cathedral stood. Moroux was pondering the proximity of the cemetery to the church and whether this had any effect on weekly donations in the collection plate. In some of the church parishes of the diocese, the cemeteries were far removed from the church. In others, the faithful making their way into the church were confronted with this stark reminder of death in the form of acres of tombstones. He wondered if the face of death made parishioners double down on donations,
hedging their bets regarding eternity. Moroux made a mental note to check the per capita donations in church parishes where the cemetery stood next to the church against those where the tombs were far removed.

“Jean-Paul?” Father Dubois spoke softly, hesitantly, as he approached the monsignor.

Standing face to face, Dubois was taller, but both men were small. Deliberately, Moroux extended his hand. Francis Dubois’s handshake was damp.

The monsignor asked, “Francis, do you want to talk here? My office? Take a walk?”

Francis Dubois cleared his throat. He did it twice. “It’s about my finance reports, isn’t it? I know I’m late. Three months, I think. I have no help. Getting everything done, doing it alone is hard—”

Jean-Paul Moroux quietly raised his hand to silence Dubois.

“It’s not about the reports.”

“Well, I want you to know I like Amalie. I hope I’m not being reassigned.”

Moroux put his hand on Dubois’s shoulder. “Let’s walk.”

Under the glow of the security lights, they skirted the edge of the graveyard, winding down its stone path to an elaborate, deep green, cast-iron gazebo covering three graves. The two men sat on an iron bench under the gazebo.

“You know, Francis, the three males buried under this gazebo have the exact same name. The old man in the center there was a brilliant inventor. He designed this gazebo when his oldest son was killed, to cover that grave to the left. He knew his wife would come here every day. He wanted to keep the sun off her. A rather extravagant gesture, don’t you think?”

“Who was he?” Dubois whispered, feigning interest.

“He was a narcissistic fellow who wanted to live on after death in some way. He didn’t believe in an afterlife or in the idea that man has a soul. He wanted his name to survive him so he gave his exact name to two male descendants. First to his oldest son, who
was killed in a car accident as a teenager. Then to his first grandson, who also died in childhood. The old man outlived both of his namesakes. He was the last man on earth with his name when he was buried.”

Father Dubois said nothing. He didn’t know what to say because he had no idea what they were talking about.

Moroux continued, “Well, all that’s interesting enough. But what’s really significant is that the fellow in the middle was an avowed atheist. That was known to everyone, certainly to all of us. It’s against our rules to bury an avowed atheist in hallowed ground. But he was sneaked into this cemetery by the former bishop as a tribute to his financial generosity to the cathedral parish, which he funneled through his wife. She attended early Mass all of her life. Holy Mother Church values a lot of things, Francis.”

“Yes,” Dubois whispered.

“We don’t have to whisper, Francis,” Moroux said. Pointing to the graves, he added, “I don’t think they will mind. You see, they’re all dead.”

Dubois nodded nervously. He grabbed a vine growing on the iron latticework of the gazebo, tearing a leaf free.

“One day, Francis, somebody might dig a really big hole and bury this Church.”

Father Dubois was beginning to feel dizzy. He was lost. He knew the monsignor had his ways and maybe some understood Moroux’s ways, but Dubois was not in that number.

“The point, Francis… You see, the point is that our Church can overlook or look away from many things. We can bury an atheist in the center of our bone-yard. It’s a little thing to overlook. Our Church sees nothing it does not want to see.”

Dubois was confused. The tension was twisting his insides. Monsignor Moroux did nothing to relieve his anxiety. Rather he dug into the pocket of his windbreaker for a cigarette and pack of matches. For a time he played with the cigarette in his hand. Then he lit it, inhaled deeply and exhaled. Repeating the process again and again, Moroux smoked the whole cigarette without
saying anything, and then he flipped the butt, end over end, toward a simple grave outside of the gazebo. When the cigarette butt hit the stone marker, hot ashes scattered like miniature fireworks. A smile spread over Monsignor Jean-Paul Moroux’s face and his eyes softened. “That’s my brother’s grave. He loved to smoke.”

Monsignor Moroux turned away from his brother’s grave and fixed his black eyes on Dubois. Dubois fingered, twisted, and balled up the ivy leaf in his fist.

“Francis, we have a problem. A problem with little boys.”

Father Dubois’s hands were clasped between his knees, his whole torso bent forward as he tried to calm the cramps in his stomach. Father Dubois felt he might have to excuse himself to go to a restroom.

“Yes, Francis. We have a problem.”

“No!” Dubois said emphatically. “No!”

Moroux murmured softly, “Yes, Francis.”

“Who? I’ve a right, a right to know. It has to be somebody who heard something about the past. Was it a farmer named Weston Courville? He’s got a son named Will who has some kind of nervous disorder, mental problems or something, and he lies. He quit going to school.”

“No, Francis. I do not believe there is a Courville child involved.” Monsignor Moroux checked his memory. He knew there was no Courville family.

“Whoever it is, I can explain. I know I can,” Dubois pleaded.

“Not this time, Francis, not this time,” Moroux said.

“What’s wrong? You don’t think it’s true, do you? You know me, Jean-Paul. I wouldn’t. Not again. I wouldn’t…” Dubois’s voice trailed off.

“Francis, I told you we have problems. This time they’re real problems. It’s not like the other times with one boy, two parents. It’s more than one boy this time, more than one family.”

“Tell me who—”

Moroux interrupted, “I can’t tell you who, Francis. I can tell
you they have lawyers. This time it’s not going to go away. This time you’re going to go away.”

Father Francis Dubois began to cry. The monsignor offered no consolation.

“Go where, Jean-Paul?”

“You are not to return to Amalie ever again. I’ve rented a room at the Holiday Inn in Thiberville for tonight. The reservation is under the name John Bosco.”

Monsignor Moroux intellectualized everything. He spoke with people, but the only real dialogues he ever had were in his head. He only joked with himself in his mind. He assigned the name Bosco to Dubois because Saint John Bosco, who lived in the late 1800s and was canonized in 1934 by Pope Pius XI, was known as the Pied Piper of Turin because so many young boys followed him through the streets. His special ministry was young boys, disadvantaged street boys. When he was canonized, the Church cited him for employing an education method based on love.

Dubois had no intention of going straight to the hotel. He would first return to the rectory to retrieve his things.

“That’s it, Francis. We will announce you are on medical leave. Tomorrow you will go to Alexandria. It’s only a couple hours away, but far enough. In Alexandria, there is a room reserved for you at another Holiday Inn. It too is in the name John Bosco. A Catholic psychologist there will contact you. You will see him daily until an appropriate treatment venue is found. In time a reassignment to another diocese will come. You will do God’s work again.”

“But, but I… I don’t… I don’t have…”

“Money? There’s cash in this envelope.”

Dubois made a mental note to remember to remove the thousands of dollars wrapped in tin foil in the bottom of his fish freezer in the utility room of the rectory, money borrowed from the collection plate.

“If you need anything, call me later this evening at my
residence. My private number is on the envelope. Never call the chancery.”

“I’ve got to tell some people in Amalie goodbye.”

“It’s not a good idea. Don’t call or write anyone in Amalie. Never go to Amalie again. The lawyers tell me there are people in Amalie who want to kill you. Maybe the ones who want to kill you are the same ones you think are your friends.”

“I have guns, Jean-Paul.”

“My God, Francis, just go in peace.”

They strolled back to the angel fountain and Moroux handed him the envelope. As Dubois started down the steps toward his car, Moroux called softly, “Francis, do you want to make a confession?”

“What?”

“Do you want me to hear your confession?”

Father Francis Dominick Dubois turned his back to Monsignor Moroux and headed for his car, twice quickening his pace as he went.

Monsignor Jean-Paul Moroux was hung-over as he walked unsteadily onto the altar of Saint Stephen’s Cathedral to celebrate 6 a.m. Mass. He knew each of the fourteen elderly people in the pews, most of whom spent the time in church praying the rosary. He set a land speed record for racing through the liturgy.

In the sacristy, Moroux normally removed and folded his altar clothes carefully, placing them in drawers beneath the high counter. This morning he merely tossed the liturgical vestments on the counter. Pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocked a cabinet and placed the bottle of altar wine on one of its shelves. From the rear of the cabinet, he retrieved a bottle of vodka, unscrewed the cap and poured a shot into a chalice, which he drank in a single gulp, wiping his mouth on the embroidered stole he had worn during Mass.

This was not the first time Moroux had been confronted with accusations of sexual molestation of minors by one of his priests, not even the first time a complaint of this nature had been made against Father Francis Dubois. But it was the first time the children and their parents had employed attorneys. Moroux did not like being told what to do, but today he would follow orders. The entire matter relating to Father Francis Dominick Dubois sexually abusing young boys was now in the hands of a consortium of New Orleans insurance attorneys.

If the families had been paid off in the past, they were paid off with blessings, not money. Diocesan personnel had been assigned
to pray with them, pay particular attention to them, give them special treatment, and they had been satisfied. In the past, the offending priest had been moved to a distant parish, and the idea of suing the diocese had never crossed the mind of his devout parishioners. It was always the children of devout parishioners who were the victims, because they were the ones who were encouraged to be altar boys and to get involved in parish youth activities.

This time the families had lawyers. The Church had lawyers. This time it was not about sins, prayers and faith. It was about money.

Ricardo Ponce had shaved the few remaining strands of hair from his bald head. He fastidiously removed his suit coat, displaying a monogrammed starched shirt, leather braces and a hand-painted silk tie. Pulling a cobalt blue Mont Blanc pen and legal pad from his soft leather case, he purposely avoided shaking hands with Monsignor Moroux.

Ponce bought his clothes with a credit card that had recently been canceled, got his manners from old movies he watched on a cable channel that had been cut off, and was on the verge of having his small sailboat repossessed. An eviction notice had been served on him for nonpayment of rent on his apartment in the marina a week before. The only bill he had kept current was his phone bill, and that was a lucky thing for without it he wouldn’t have gotten the call from his old classmate Brent Thomas.

When his cousins had come to his law office in Bayou Saint John and presented him with the facts regarding the sexual abuse of their sons, Brent Thomas knew he was over his head. He was nothing more than a small-time small-town lawyer. He represented the local bank his father-in-law owned and had the odd case for friends he had grown up with. His discomfort at
having to bring legal complaints against his Church was genuine, and it robbed him of sleep. As lay ministers, both Thomas and his wife distributed communion at Sunday Mass and often he did readings from the altar. But his qualms were outweighed by his desire to make a large enough legal fee to gain independence from his wife’s father, who owned him. So he had called in the
hardest-bitten
lawyer he knew – Ricardo Ponce.

If Brent Thomas had been a puppy, his tail would have been wagging. He grinned and reached across the huge chancery desk to pump Moroux’s hand vigorously and tell him how good it was to see him again.

Monsignor Moroux attempted to size up the two lawyers, an unlikely pair. He believed Thomas was probably dumb, and he knew it would not necessarily follow that Ponce was smart.

“Gentlemen, Father Francis and all of his possessions were removed from Amalie exactly as you requested.”

Brent Thomas spoke up. “What about our request that the families meet with the bishop? These families have a right to confront their bishop.”

Monsignor Moroux did not remember having heard or read such a request.

Inwardly, Ponce winced. He had not bothered to tell Brent that he cut Brent’s pious paragraph from the final draft of their covering letter that accompanied the legal petitions, all the drivel about reconciling the families with their faith, having their shepherd tend to wounded members of his flock. As Ricardo Ponce saw it, this was like everything else in the law, about money and nothing else. After the money was in hand, Brent Thomas could have all the meetings he wanted to have with the bishop.

Ponce jumped in. “What about the settlement offer that is due today?”

“The families have a right to see their bishop,” Thomas repeated.

“I want the settlement offer,” Ponce said. “Today you are to make a good-faith offer to settle the cases. You told us serious
negotiations are to take place this morning. There are six cases and—”

Moroux let a slight smile sneak into the corners of his mouth as he cut Ponce off. “Let me query you, Mr. Ponce. Do you think there is a possible legal conflict of interest in you and Mr. Thomas representing six claimants – in you two deciding which children will receive what amounts? Is your idea that they all receive the same amount or is it your idea that some will receive more than others? The damage to each child cannot be identical, can it? The things described in the legal petitions are uniform to the point of being identical, but Doctor Kennison’s reports show great differences in the length and type of relationship each child had with Father Dubois, differences in the damage done to each child. Is not each victim entitled to his own legal counsel to press his claim? Would not the children benefit from each of them having their own legal counsel to represent their interests alone?”

Moroux’s remarks were a diversion. He had studied law at the University of Notre Dame for four semesters and he believed Ponce and Thomas could be disciplined for acting as if they, rather than the judiciary, were the arbiters of which child received which amount. But their ethics were of no importance to him. Like the New Orleans lawyers, he was determined that the first court case of this kind would not happen in his diocese. He knew settlement was the only solution, but along the course to compromise he would try to throw the young lawyers off balance.

Ricardo Ponce suddenly said he had a problem with one of his contact lenses. Monsignor Moroux directed him to the public lavatory at the end of the hall rather than the bishop’s private restroom. There was nothing wrong with Ponce’s contact lens; he just felt rattled and wanted to regroup.

Once in the men’s room, Ponce checked the stalls to make sure he was alone. He wished he had a drink or maybe something stronger. Whenever he was away from Fort Lauderdale he missed the juke joints that sold booze on top of the bar and drugs under the
counter. As he attempted to calm himself down, his mind turned to his favorite dock bar and to Old Willie, the old man he drank with there. Ponce believed he had learned more from Old Willie, an alcoholic, disbarred lawyer, than he ever learned in law school.

“Lawyering ain’t no different from dating a broad,” Old Willie had said to him once, “or living with one, or being married up. Think about it. Whenever a couple that is involved sexually comes to different points of view, and they debate or argue over something… think about it. Tell me who wins. Who wins? Who always wins? The woman always wins, and why, son? Why does the woman always win? It’s because she has the pussy.”

And then he’d got to the heart of it. “In every negotiation you go into in your career, somebody will always have the pussy. When a building contractor is negotiating with a developer about a new shopping mall, somebody has the upper hand – does the contractor need the contract more than the developer needs the shopping mall, or is it the other way around? Is the contractor flush with work or will he go under without closing this deal? Is the developer being squeezed by a bank to break ground or does the developer own the land free and clear? Who’s got the pussy? The really good lawyers figure this out before any negotiation begins and act accordingly. Sometimes you will have the pussy, other times the other guy will have the pussy.”

Old Willie had made a dramatic pause and then, assuming a serious expression, had concluded, “It’s all that matters in the law. Who’s got the pussy?”

Ricardo smiled at himself in the mirror, vowed to have reconstructive surgery on the big scar when he collected this legal fee, and thought of Old Willie in the bar back home. In this deal, Ricardo Ponce knew he had the pussy. He represented innocent children who had been sexually abused by a Catholic priest, and he knew the diocese had every motive to pay big money to buy their silence and keep the cases sealed away forever from the public. Ponce knew he was in the driver’s seat. He might never again in his career go into negotiations when he had the pussy, but
by God, this time he had the pussy and he knew it. No sawed-off, short little monsignor was going to push him around.

When Ponce walked back into the office, he addressed Moroux. “Monsignor, I want you to know there’s no conflict of interest, and furthermore, if there were a conflict, it would be of no matter to this diocese, which is hardly in a position to be talking about ethics or moral principles at this point in time.”

Brent Thomas visibly shuddered when he heard the words and tone emanating from Ponce, but Moroux did not see him. Brent thought he had been making progress with Monsignor Moroux when Ponce was in the restroom. He had talked about old times at Saint Vincent’s Catholic School in Bayou Saint John, when Moroux had been his teacher. Now, Ponce was becoming aggressive, a tactic that was not in Thomas’s repertoire.

“We-ell,” Moroux drawled, moving to his central concern, prefacing his statement with a lie. “Our financial resources are limited, dedicated to charitable functions of this diocese. Before we would agree to pay any sum to settle these claims we would want your assurance that these are
all
of the claims. That there are no more claims that either of you or any of the families are aware of.”

Ponce looked at Thomas and shrugged, saying, “That’s it. What about you, Brent?”

Brent nodded. “This is all of them, Monsignor.”

As there was no legal precedent to look to, Thomas and Ponce’s best guestimate coming into the meeting was that all six cases would settle for a total of somewhere around one hundred thousand each. A total of six hundred thousand dollars would produce a one-third contingency fee of two hundred thousand, a hundred thousand for Ponce and a hundred thousand for Thomas. Neither of them had ever seen that kind of money, nor in their wildest dreams could they have imagined that the settlement brochures containing dossiers prepared by the psychologist would panic seasoned attorneys like Blassingame and Quinlan.

Monsignor Moroux said, “Assuming that your clients execute settlement documents acceptable to our counsel and the settlement remains under seal and is conditioned on the continued silence of your clients, I am prepared to offer a settlement for all six claims in the amount of three million, three hundred thousand dollars.”

Neither lawyer needed a calculator to realize that their
one-third
contingency fee would exceed a million dollars. Ricardo Ponce’s heart froze in terror that Brent Thomas would accept the offer before he could bargain for more, but Thomas had been rendered speechless.

They were now playing with winnings. It was liar’s poker for high stakes. The monsignor had lied to them, implying the source of the settlement was the collection plate. They had lied to the monsignor on material points.

Ponce had learned from Old Willie that when the talking turned to money, one should always listen. But Moroux said nothing more. There was nothing for Ponce to listen to.

“It’s not just about the money,” Brent Thomas said. “It’s about what Bishop Reynolds did in sending this man to prey on the children of Amalie. The families have a right to meet with the bishop. You haven’t addressed this demand of ours.”

Ponce felt he was watching an idiot savant. Sheer brilliance was flowing from Brent Thomas’s empty brain. Talking that bishop crap again in such a sincere way might be convincing to Monsignor Moroux and might drive the sum of the settlement up.

Monsignor Moroux had only spoken with Bishop Reynolds about this business once. He remembered the bishop’s choking coughs as he ended the call, and knew he would never agree to a meeting with the families.

“The bishop very much wants to meet with the families,” Moroux lied. Appearing as earnest as possible, he stretched the point. “But I do not think it would be responsible to allow Bishop Reynolds to meet with any party who is presently suing him. When the cases are resolved in court or settled in this office, then Bishop Reynolds will meet with the families.”

Ponce stood up, slowly donned his suit jacket, placed the pen in his pocket and touched his smooth, damp scalp, wiping his hand dry on his trousers. He looked down at Moroux and said, “Six hundred thousand per kid. A total of three million, six hundred thousand.”

“I don’t have that much authority,” Moroux lied.

“You can get it.”

“Well, maybe—”

“We can finish business now at three point six.”

Monsignor Moroux stood. This time Ricardo Ponce thrust his hand toward Jean-Paul Moroux. Moroux grasped Ponce’s hand firmly. “Finished business,” Ponce said.

“Finished business,” Moroux repeated.

The monsignor walked them out and stood at the fountain as the lawyers made their way to a fifteen-year-old Volvo with Florida plates. Moroux pulled out a pack of Camel cigarettes and sat on the edge of the fountain. He rubbed the left side of his neck. He believed the big artery was clogged.