MD05 - The Confession Page 2

  “Are you thinking of getting out?” I ask.

  His tone is uncharacteristically sharp when he says, “You did.”

  It would have consumed me if I hadn’t. “I wasn’t cut out for the job.”

  “I’m tired of being a full-time apologist who hears confessions when I’m not beating the bushes for money.”

  I offer a priestly platitude. “Things will get better.”

  “I hope Jesus is still listening to you.”

  I finish my beer and look into the eyes of my old friend. “Why did you call me, Ramon?”

  “Have you been following the O’Connell case?”

  “A little.”

  His mentor, Father Patrick O’Connell, started his career at St. Peter’s and later moved to St. Boniface in the teeming Tenderloin District. About a year ago, allegations began to surface that Father Pat had been engaging in illicit sexual activities with his female parishioners for two decades. One of his alleged victims filed a lawsuit naming the archdiocese as a co-defendant.

  Father Pat died of a heart attack a couple of months ago, but the case against the archdiocese didn’t go away. Things were coming to a head last week when jury selection was set to begin, but everything came to a screeching halt when the body of the plaintiff’s attorney was found in her Mission District flat, an apparent suicide.

  “The plaintiff’s lawyer was a member of our parish,” he says, “and her mother asked me to officiate at her funeral. I suspect this was viewed with mixed feelings down at archdiocese headquarters.”

  I’ll bet. Maria Concepcion grew up a few blocks from here and graduated at the top of her class at Hastings. She spent the early years of her career taking endless depositions and briefing arcane rules of law on behalf of the tobacco companies that paid her prominent downtown firm millions to defend product liability lawsuits. She was compensated handsomely for her efforts and became well-versed in the minutiae of class action litigation, but she never saw the inside of a courtroom and grew weary of killing trees to facilitate the uninterrupted flow of nicotine. Coincidentally, her old firm has represented the archdiocese for decades. She had a falling out with her colleagues and her husband, and she found herself unemployed and divorced.

  She set up shop in her Mission District apartment and took on small matters for her neighbors. Her career took an unexpected turn when she filed a lawsuit against the archdiocese as a favor to a friend who was trying to collect a modest judgment in a slip-and-fall case. She played it for all it was worth and got a check and an apology from the archbishop. More importantly, her photo appeared on page one of the Chronicle the next morning.

  The timing was fortuitous. Two days later, a priest was accused of propositioning several altar boys. The victims hired the mediagenic Concepcion, who filed a dozen lawsuits against the Church for everything from child abuse to sexual improprieties. The players on Cathedral Hill and their highly-paid attorneys tried to dismiss her as a publicity-seeking hack, but the evidence proved otherwise. If you believe the Chronicle, she had negotiated settlements that ran well into eight figures, and there has been speculation that an adverse result in the O’Connell case could push the archdiocese into bankruptcy.

  “I’ve known Maria since we were kids,” he says. “She may have been a hotshot lawyer, but she was still a regular at mass–unlike present company.”

  “She was suing the archdiocese for millions, yet she kept coming?”

  “She still believed in the Church, but not in the people who are running it.”

  “Did that include you?”

  “She wouldn’t have come to St. Peter’s if she thought I was part of the problem. The fact that she was a member of our parish didn’t endear me to my superiors, but you can’t throw somebody out of the club just because she’s suing the guys who have the keys to the social hall.”

  The power priests in the cushy offices down the block from St. Mary’s Cathedral might see things a little differently. I lower my voice to confession level and say, “The press is saying it was a suicide.”

  “It’s inconceivable to me.”

  “Is this something we need to talk about?”

  “Is this conversation attorney-client privileged?”

  “It is now.”

  He glances around the empty restaurant and says, “The cops have been asking questions.”

  “That’s the usual procedure.” Especially if it wasn’t a suicide.

  “They said they might want to talk to me again. I was hoping you’d be available.”

  “Of course. Do you have any information that might be of interest to them?”

  There’s a hesitation before he says, “I don’t think so.”

  I pick up on it. “Is there something you haven’t told me?”

  “I’m probably just being paranoid.”

  Or hiding something.

  # # #

  “How is Ramon?” Rosie asks.

  Her sculpted cheekbones and olive skin have regained the youthful luster that belie forty-six years of mileage, two children and a battle with breast cancer. After Tommy arrived, she went on a torturous exercise regimen to regain the svelteness that had disappeared after Grace was born. The only hints of her age are a few small creases at the corners of her cobalt eyes and my insider knowledge that her long black hair gets a helpful boost every so often from certain over-the-counter products that you can find in your local drugstore.

  “He’s still having a hard time with Pat O’Connell’s death,” I tell her.

  Once upon a time, Tuesday was our date night, but it became laundry night after Tommy was born. We’re watching the eleven o’clock news and folding clothes in the living room of Rosie’s rented nine hundred square foot palace across the street from the Little League field in Larkspur, a tidy burg about ten miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Tommy is dozing in Rosie’s bedroom and Grace is sleeping in her room at the end of the narrow hallway.

  Rosie isn’t surprised when I tell her that Ramon knew Maria Concepcion. Rosie’s family moved into the Mission around the same time that we left. Her mother still lives in a white bungalow around the corner from St. Peter’s, and she knows everybody in the neighborhood, including the Concepcion family. Rosie says she’d met Maria on a couple of occasions, but they weren’t close. She describes her as pretty and very ambitious.

  I ask about her vendetta against the archdiocese.

  “It started by accident and snowballed,” she says. “The fact that her old law firm represents the Church may have given her some additional incentive.”

  “Was she a publicity hound?”

  “She was a good lawyer.”

  “Did she strike you as the type who would have committed suicide?”

  “I didn’t know her that well.”

  I’m pulling a load of laundry out of the dryer a few minutes later when the phone rings. Rosie gives me an unhappy look and dashes into the kitchen to pick it up. People with little kids generally aren’t wildly appreciative of calls in the wee hours, but in our line of work, they’re an occupational hazard.

  Tommy wakes up and I head into the bedroom. He’s pulled himself up by the posts of his crib and is wailing with an intensity that will serve him well after he passes the bar exam in twenty-five years. I hoist him up on my shoulder and feel the full diaper, then I gently place him on the changing table and sing “To-Ra-Loo-Ra” with the same inflection my mother used when I was a kid. I’m not sure if it’s my vocals or the removal of the diaper, but he stops crying. I put him back in his crib and say, “Why don’t you give Mommy a break tonight?”

  He gives me a bemused look. The son of two lawyers knows better than to make any promises.

  I’m sitting in the rocking chair next to the crib when Rosie walks in. There is a troubled look on her face as she hands me the cordless phone. “It’s Ramon,” she says.

  Something’s very wrong. I take the phone and whisper, “What’s up?”

  His voice cracks. “I’m sorry for calling so
late. I hope I didn’t wake Tommy.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I need your help.”

  “I told you I’d be available if the cops wanted to talk to you.”

  “They do.”

  “Fine. When?”

  “Right now.”

  What?

  “I’ve been arrested for the murder of Maria Concepcion.”

  Chapter 2

  “How Many Lawyers Does it Take?

  “Cases involving the clergy are especially troublesome.”

  — Inspector Roosevelt Johnson. San Francisco Chronicle.

  “Where is he?” Rosie asks.

  I’m pulling on my jacket as I say, “The rectory at St. Peter’s.”

  “Who made the arrest?”

  “Marcus Banks and Roosevelt Johnson.” The SFPD isn’t taking any chances. The veteran homicide inspectors have more than eighty years of experience between them. “Johnson was standing next to him and Ramon couldn’t say much. Banks told me to meet them at the Hall of Justice.”

  This elicits a troubled look and a realistic analysis. “Sounds like the chances of stopping the train before things get out of hand aren’t very good.”

  I need to deal with an important issue up front. I ask, “Do you have the energy for this?” It isn’t a purely academic question. Rosie’s health problems are largely behind her, but murder cases take on a life of their own and we agreed to steer clear of high-profile matters until Tommy gets out of diapers.

  “We know all the reasons why we shouldn’t take this case,” she says.

  I hope there’s a “but” coming.

  “But it’s Ramon,” she says. “We have to help him.”

  When push comes to shove, Rosita Carmela Fernandez is always there. On to another touchy subject. “He’s a priest,” I say. “He isn’t rolling in cash.”

  “We didn’t pay him to mediate our divorce.”

  No, we didn’t. Ramon engaged in six weeks of thankless shuttle diplomacy while Rosie and I negotiated our settlement. We spent more time hammering on him than reviewing the legal documents. He never lost his composure even when the sniping got especially nasty.

  “You’re prepared to handle his case pro bono?” I say.

  “The archdiocese may be willing to pay his legal fees.”

  “And if not?”

  Her sense of obligation trumps her customary dedication to fiscal responsibility. “We owe it to him. I’ll take the kids to my mother’s, then I’ll meet you down at the Hall.”

  End of discussion.

  # # #

  In my hometown, the wheels of justice grind ever so slowly in a massive gray temple we lovingly call the Hall of Justice. The monolithic six story structure takes up two city blocks adjacent to the 80 freeway and houses the criminal courts, the morgue, the DA’s office and the Southern Police Station. The architect who designed the Plexiglas-covered jail wing that was added in the early nineties drew his inspiration from Cold War-era structures in East Berlin. The cops derisively refer to it as the “Glamour Slammer.”

  The lifeless slab is especially depressing in a driving rainstorm as I pull into a parking space on Bryant Street a few minutes after midnight. The cross-section of San Francisco’s underbelly who conduct their business while the sun is still up are absent, and the dimly-lit granite hallway echos with an uninviting reverberation. I’m soaked as I pass through the metal detector where the night guard greets me by name. I take the excruciatingly slow elevator to the fourth floor, where Marcus Banks and Roosevelt Johnson are waiting for me outside an airless interrogation room next to the bullpen where the homicide inspectors ply their trade. This area bustles with activity during the day, but is eerily quiet at this hour. Things could be worse. In normal circumstances, we’d be conducting this unpleasant exercise at the intake center in the Glamour Slammer.

  Banks is dressed in a custom charcoal suit that exudes cool control as it hugs his ebony skin. In a minor concession to the hour, his Armani tie is loosened. The only hints of his age are the gray eyebrows that form a single line across the top of his wire-rimmed bifocals.

  Johnson played linebacker at Cal and was a member of the SFPD’s first integrated team when he walked the beat with my father a half-century ago. He came out of retirement to keep busy after his wife died earlier this year. His attire is a study in meticulous business casual: khaki slacks and an oxford shirt. His trim mustache is now a distinguished shade of silver, but he looks as if he could still cover a tight end sprinting downfield.

  We exchange forced greetings and I address Johnson, whom I’ve known since I was a kid and who is generally more forthcoming than his partner. “Where is Father Aguirre?” I ask.

  He gestures toward the interrogation room and responds in a measured baritone. “His arraignment will be at ten o’clock this morning.”

  Rosie is making the obligatory calls, but it’s unlikely the duty judge will grant bail. The best-case scenario is that Ramon will be here for only one night. Given the circumstances, all I can do is cast a line and start fishing. “What’s this all about?” I ask.

  The combative Banks grudgingly offers a morsel. “Ms. Concepcion’s mother found her daughter’s body in the bathtub, wrists slashed.”

  “The papers said it was a suicide.”

  “They were wrong. We found a kitchen knife in the bathroom. It was covered with her blood.”

  “That’s still consistent with a suicide,” I say.

  “Except for the fact that Father Aguirre’s fingerprints were on the knife.”

  Hell. “I’m sure he has an explanation.”

  “He hasn’t shared it with us. A lawyer advised him not to talk.”

  That would have been me. I’m tempted to explain that Ramon knew Concepcion, but you never offer anything that could be used against you. “I want to see him,” I say.

  “You’ll have to come back during visiting hours.”

  No way. “I want to see him right now.”

  “We’ll try to work something out as soon as he’s done talking to his lawyers.”

  What? “I’m his lawyer.”

  “Not according to the two guys inside who say they’re representing him.”

  “Who?”

  “F.X. Quinn and John Shanahan.”

  The archdiocese isn’t wasting any time protecting its turf. Father Francis Xavier Quinn is the overbearing chief in-house counsel for the archdiocese, a man who looks like Orson Welles and talks like Donald Rumsfeld. He earned a law degree at night and has worked his way up the bureaucracy at the archdiocese for thirty years. When I was a priest, he oversaw the administration of St. Anne’s Parish, and he was less than understanding when I decided to leave. John Shanahan is the eloquent senior partner of the well-connected firm of Shanahan, Gallagher and O’Rourke, where Concepcion started her career. Quinn and Shanahan are the designated SWAT team when a priest gets into trouble. Quinn is the muscle and Shanahan is the mouthpiece.

  I give Banks my best Clint Eastwood look and say, “Father Aguirre called me first.”

  “This isn’t a race.”

  “He asked me to represent him. He’s always free to change his mind.”

  “Evidently, he already has.”

  “I’ll need to hear it from him.”

  “This is like a bad joke,” he says. “How many lawyers does it take to represent a priest who is accused of murder?”

  “Just one,” I say. “Me.”

  Chapter 3

  The Muscle and the Mouthpiece

  “The moral authority of the archbishop must never be brought into question.”

  — Father F.X. Quinn. San Francisco Chronicle.

  F.X. Quinn squeezes my hand and feigns civility. “Nice to see you again, Michael,” he lies. His tone lands somewhere between condescending and patronizing when he adds, “Thank you for coming down here in the middle of the night, but the situation is under control.”

  John Shanahan nods emphatically. Smart lawyers don’t talk unle
ss they must and always agree with their meal-ticket clients.

  We’re standing in the empty corridor near the homicide division, just out of earshot of Banks and Johnson. They’ve given us five minutes to decide who gets to be Ramon’s lawyer, and the issue does not lend itself to a prompt resolution by a one-potato-two-potato contest.

  Quinn towers over me by six inches and outweighs me by a hundred pounds. The one-time defensive tackle at St. Ignatius wears the traditional collar and carries the accouterments of authority with regal splendor. His bald dome, multi-tiered chins and basset hound eyes suggest he’s an avuncular grandfather-type, but his looks are deceiving. He preaches peace and love, but he views every legal claim against the archdiocese as a personal affront to God.