The 7th Canon (9 page)

“He does, but if one of the wealthiest institutions in the world calls, do you turn them down?” Ramsey asked.

“So, how do we play this?”

“We advise Larry the evidence against Father Martin is substantial, but we might be open to considering something so as not to embarrass the church. Carr will be duty bound to bring the information to the archbishop. With all the recent press about priest indiscretions, the archbishop won’t be able to ignore such an opening. He’ll also be duty bound to talk to those in power above him.”

“And if the archbishop doesn’t see the wisdom of it?”

Ramsey turned his gaze to the window. In a few years, there would be a new county jail there, but at the moment, he had a view of the 101 Freeway and, beyond it, the San Francisco skyline. Farther to the east awaited the capitol in Sacramento. “Then you’ll get your shot at Father Martin.”

Donley walked down a light-green marble floor and stepped through double-wide oak doors, the words
D
ISTRICT
A
TTORNEY
stenciled in black block letters on the smoked glass. He asked to speak with Gil Ramsey and provided the woman behind the counter with his name and a business card. The woman made a phone call, repeated Donley’s name twice, and hung up. After a few minutes, a second woman, this one identifying herself as Ramsey’s assistant, met Donley in the lobby and led him through a maze of narrow hallways lined with metal filing cabinets to a corner office.

Ramsey looked very much like the man whose face was bombarding voters on television and plastered around the city on large billboards, sometimes alone and sometimes with his father, the former governor. A pronounced shadow extended from just under Ramsey’s cheekbones to a point somewhere below the collar of his starched white shirt. Ramsey sat with both feet propped on the edge of a large mahogany desk, a document in hand, reading glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. In a chair across the desk sat an attractive blonde woman who also looked familiar, though Donley could not place her. From their surprised expressions, he could tell they’d been expecting Larry Carr. Ramsey finally removed his feet and stood, motioning for Donley to enter with a wave of his hand. “Please, come in.”

The assistant took Donley’s umbrella and placed it in a container near the door.

Ramsey introduced himself. He was taller than Donley had expected, over six feet, with a marathon runner’s physique. Ramsey gestured to the empty chair beside the blonde with the sour face. She’d also stood and now thrust out her hand like she was going to remove Donley’s kidney.

“Linda St. Claire.”

The name and the staccato voice clicked. St. Claire had been a television commentator during a recent high-profile trial of a man accused of kidnapping, raping, and murdering a twelve-year-old girl from a northern county. The trial had attracted national headlines.

“You’ll have to excuse us if we appear a bit caught off guard. We were expecting Larry Carr,” Ramsey said.

Donley smiled. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Do you work with Larry?”

“No, I don’t.” Donley removed two business cards and handed one to each. Ramsey lifted the bifocals dangling from the string around his neck onto the bridge of his nose and held up the card. The eyebrows inched closer together. “You work for Lou Giantelli?” he asked.

“Yes, I do.”

Ramsey lowered the card. “I’ve known Lou for many years. We tried a few cases against each other back in the day. He’s a very capable lawyer.”

Six cases,
Donley knew from Lou.
And Lou beat you every time.

Lou had once related to Donley how Gil Ramsey had been a young deputy district attorney when Lou did criminal-defense work on a regular basis. Lou described Ramsey as competent but arrogant, a lawyer who failed to learn from his mistakes and repeated them, making him predictable.

“I understand Lou had a heart attack in court yesterday.”

“Yes, he did.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there any word on his condition?”

“The doctors are optimistic he’ll make a full recovery,” Donley said, not about to tell Ramsey anything different.

“I hope that’s true.”

“The archbishop indicated you called to discuss Father Martin.”

Ramsey offered Donley a seat. Donley set his briefcase down and lowered into a chair beside St. Claire. Diplomas and certificates of achievement from various law-enforcement organizations littered the walls, the flow of paper disrupted only by the drooping leaves of a potted plant. A table behind Ramsey displayed what Donley presumed to be family photographs. Ramsey was married to a brunette and had two daughters and a golden retriever. He apparently lived in a Victorian-style house with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge, probably somewhere in Pacific Heights.

Ramsey spun an uncurled paper clip between his thumb and finger like a helicopter blade. “I want to be as up-front as possible with the archbishop, Mr. Peters.”

“It’s Donley. Peter Donley.”

Ramsey stopped twirling the paper clip and sat forward. “We intend to charge Father Martin with first-degree murder.” His tufted caterpillar eyebrows drew together, stray black hairs peeking through the silver. “As you may or may not know, I adamantly support the death penalty, and seek it where I believe appropriate. And I believe it appropriate in this instance. That’s why I’ve assigned Ms. St. Claire to handle this matter. She has a dozen capital-murder convictions.”

Ramsey paused as if expecting Donley to respond. He didn’t. He’d learned from Lou that often the best response was no response. People did not like silence and usually filled it with their own voices.

Free information. Take it when you can get it,
Lou liked to say.

Donley also was beginning to understand why neither the archbishop nor Lou cared for Gil Ramsey. The man had an arrogance about him that permeated the entire office. Whereas the archbishop’s framing of his Notre Dame paraphernalia seemed to be for his benefit—to recall a special time in his life—Ramsey’s framed tribute to himself seemed intended for others. Donley also quickly deduced the purpose of the meeting was not so much to share information but to intimidate. Older civil lawyers had tried to take the same tactic. They equated his youth with inexperience and assumed he had never tried a case in his life. They usually ended up regretting that assumption. Here, however, Donley was in uncharted waters when it came to a criminal charge, particularly one this significant. He wasn’t looking to impress. He was hoping only to survive the meeting without embarrassing himself, Lou, or the archbishop.

Ramsey sat back. “As a courtesy to the archbishop—and to Lou—we will provide his counsel with the evidence against Father Martin, and let me tell you, it is significant.”

Donley recognized it to be a hollow gesture. Though he was, to a degree, winging it, he knew the defense was entitled to all of the prosecution’s evidence in a criminal case. “I appreciate that. Is there a time when I might view that evidence and get copies?”

“They’ll be provided to Father Martin’s defense counsel,” St. Claire said. “Are you his defense counsel?”

Something in her tone struck a nerve. “At present, I am,” he said.

Ramsey cut in. “In addition to finding the victim in Father Martin’s shelter and his blood on Father Martin’s clothing as well as on a six-inch, hand-carved letter opener in Father Martin’s office, the technicians recovered blood samples from the priest’s office and the recreation room, and positive shoe imprints and fingerprints. We are confident forensics will confirm the blood on the blade and handle belong to the victim.”

Donley took it all in. “And motive? Do you have a theory about what might have caused a man who devoted his life to helping teenage runaways to suddenly decide to kill one of them?”

Like a magician’s assistant, St. Claire produced a manila envelope encased in a police evidence bag and handed it to Ramsey. Ramsey opened the package without speaking, removed several photographs, also encased in plastic, and, like a poker player laying down a full house, spread them on the edge of the desk. “These were found in Father Martin’s office.”

Donley leaned forward. The photographs bore the black-powder residue used to dust for fingerprints and depicted young boys in various stages of undress. One had been blindfolded and manacled about the wrists and ankles. Donley fought to hide his revulsion, knowing Ramsey and St. Claire sat gauging his reaction.

Ramsey held up the stack. “There are more.”

Donley cleared his throat. “I get the gist.”

St. Claire furrowed her brow. “To secure a death penalty, one must shock the conscience of the jurors. A pedophile priest who murders a boy who came to him for help certainly would meet that criteria . . . in my experience.”

“And are any of these photographs of the victim?”

“That has not yet been determined,” St. Claire said.

“And they are not of Father Martin,” he said.

“No,” she said. “They don’t appear to be.”

“Do you have reason to believe Father Martin took these photographs?”

“Again,” she said, becoming agitated, “it’s too early to know, but I don’t really care. The fact they were in his possession is more than enough.”

“So, you don’t know,” Donley said.

“We do know they were found in Father Martin’s office,” Ramsey said.

“Is there evidence the victim was abused in this manner?”

Ramsey put a finger to his lips as if contemplating his response. “That’s an interesting choice of words.”

Again, St. Claire turned to Donley, and he was now convinced this had all been rehearsed. “Beaten and tortured would be a more accurate way to describe it,” she said. “The victim had burn marks on his body, likely from a cigarette, as well as several cuts and bruises. Under the circumstances, Mr. Donley, this might be the easiest death penalty I have ever asked a jury to render, given the severe breach of the public’s trust.”

Donley knew he should just remain quiet and bring the information back to Parnisi, but his mouth opened and before he could stop himself, he said, “What is it you want, Mr. Ramsey?”

“What do
we
want?”

Donley looked to St. Claire but found her face equally blank. “Yes, why did you ask to meet with the archbishop?”

“As I said, I felt a sense of obligation to let the archbishop know about the evidence,” Ramsey said. “This is not the kind of thing one likes to first read about in the newspaper or hear for the first time on the six o’clock news, especially given all the adverse press the church has received lately.” Ramsey leaned forward. His voice took on a hardened edge. “But make no mistake. My number-one concern is to prevent this from ever happening again. The court of public opinion will demand that we pursue the death penalty. If this goes to trial, that decision will be out of my hands.”

Whether Ramsey had intended to emphasize the word or not, Donley heard
If.
“Are you suggesting some type of plea deal?”

Ramsey smiled. “This office does not offer pleas to first-degree-murder suspects, Mr. Donley. We are duty bound, however, to consider a plea if one is suggested on Father Martin’s behalf.”

“You mean if he pleads guilty.”

“That would be a necessity,” Ramsey said.

They sat in silence. This time, Ramsey did not fill it. After a moment, he stood. The meeting was apparently over. Donley rose from his chair and picked up his briefcase.

“Perhaps we’ll see you again tomorrow,” St. Claire said.

Donley turned to her. “I’m sorry?”

“At Father Martin’s arraignment.”

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

St. Claire looked to Ramsey. “It’s not a court holiday, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Ramsey said. “And in light of the abundance of evidence, we don’t believe there is any reason to seek a grand jury. We’re prepared to move this matter forward expeditiously, Mr. Donley, and Judge Trimble has accorded us a place at the top of his calendar. Now that we have your business card, we’ll provide you fax notice, or will you waive it?”

They had played him, and Donley wanted nothing more than to knock the smug smiles off their faces. He wanted to say something snappy—or at least semi-intelligent—in response, but, his mind a blank, he could do nothing but walk silently from the room.