MD05 - The Confession Read online

  Chapter 10

  “It’s My Job to Have Faith”

  “Our priests are God’s emissaries. We’ll do everything to protect them.”

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

  They say the best defense is a good offense, and while I’m trying to figure out how to answer, Shanahan jumps in with an indignant response. “Everybody knows you can’t lift fingerprints from human skin,” he says.

  He’s developed his keen expertise in forensic science by watching CSIevery week.

  Banks corrects him. “Yes, you can,” he says.

  Big John has expressed a widely-held view, but it turns out that Banks is right. Before Shanahan can dig himself in deeper, I say to Banks, “Did you use glue fuming?”

  “Yes.”

  Shanahan gives me an incredulous look and says, “What are you talking about?”

  I watch CSI, too. “It’s a process to remove fingerprints off a cadaver,” I explain.

  For decades, most experts believed it was impossible to lift latent prints from human skin because of its pliability and the fact that it is covered with perspiration and other chemicals. The problem is often exacerbated in homicide cases because the victim’s skin is frequently subjected to harsh conditions such as mutilation, weather and decomposition. The FBI recently developed a procedure in which portions of the body are covered by an airtight plastic tent, sprayed with fumes of a chemical known as cynanoacrylate, and dusted with special fluorescent fingerprint powder. This so-called “glue fuming” process is most reliable if the perpetrator grabs the victim tightly and the body is discovered shortly after death.

  Shanahan isn’t the sort of guy who would ever acknowledge that he may have been wrong, and he continues his misguided onslaught. “It still doesn’t prove that Father Aguirre knocked Ms. Concepcion unconscious or slit her wrists.”

  Ward responds in a sugary tone. “We’d be happy to listen to any explanation your client is willing to provide,” she says.

  So would we. I ask her if they identified any bruises on Concepcion’s shoulders.

  “You’ll have to ask Dr. Beckert. In the meantime, notwithstanding this damaging evidence, our plea bargain proposal remains on the table.”

  This time Quinn responds. “We won’t counsel our client to confess to a crime he didn’t commit,” he says.

  I like the show of fortitude, but it may be nothing more than bluster.

  “You have a lot of faith in him,” Ward says.

  “It’s my job to have faith.”

  “Even so, our offer will remain open only until noon tomorrow.”

  # # #

  “The fingerprints on Concepcion’s neck are a problem,” Rosie says. We’re driving north on Franklin Street toward archdiocese headquarters in a misty rain at noon.

  “They were friends,” I say. “Maybe he gave her a back rub?”

  “Even if you’re right, it was a bad idea. There’s a big difference between counseling and massage. As my mother would say, it just doesn’t look nice.”

  I can’t disagree with her. We drive in silence as I search for a parking space in the crowded Cathedral Hill area. In the “All’s Fair in Love and War” spirit of this endeavor, I cut across three lanes and practically barrel into a van as I pull into a metered space on Gough Street. I ignore the blaring horns and say, “I was surprised Ward was so willing to deal.”

  “I don’t think she wants to prosecute a popular priest, and she’ll get political points if she gets a confession–even if she has to cut a deal. The last thing she needs is to put a priest on Death Row.”

  Perhaps. I search for something positive. “At least the archbishop agreed to post bail.”

  She has a more benign view. “He had to do it. Ramon’s parishioners are inundating him with calls and e-mails. It would have been a PR nightmare if he had turned his back on him.”

  “You still have questions about their loyalties?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We get out of the car and I’m about to open my umbrella when a dark green Chevy Impala barrels by us and crashes into a puddle, blasting a wall of water toward us. Rosie jumps out of the way, but I’m not quick enough. The splash leaves me soaked from the waist down.

  “Asshole,” Rosie mutters.

  “Yeah.”

  She reads my troubled look and says, “What is it?”

  “That Chevy was behind us when we left the Hall. Somebody is already watching us.”

  Chapter 11

  “I Know How This Must Look”

  “God forgives those who acknowledge their mistakes.”

  — Father Ramon Aguirre. San Francisco Chronicle.

  Ramon’s response to Ward’s plea bargain proposal is unequivocal. “No deal,” he says.

  It’s the answer I was hoping to hear. “We’ll convey your response to the DA,” I say.

  Our newly-constituted legal team has reassembled in a modest conference room in the nondescript building down the street from St. Mary’s Cathedral that houses the offices of the archdiocese. A night in jail has drained Ramon’s energy and his complexion is gaunt. His gray slacks hide an ankle bracelet that allows the cops to monitor his whereabouts. The sandwiches on the credenza are untouched.

  Quinn is sitting at the end of the oval pine table. His large presence contrasts with the small etching of an emaciated Jesus that’s hanging on the wall behind him. Shanahan is nursing a Sprite and writing on a legal pad. He’s been up all night, but there isn’t a hair out of place.

  Ramon’s expression doesn’t change when I tell him they’ve found a witness who saw him leave Concepcion’s apartment at ten o’clock on the night she died. “I told you I was there,” he says. “I’m prepared to admit I handled the knife, but they can’t show that I knocked her out.”

  It’s a more lawyerly response than I was hoping for. “They found your thumbprints on the back of her neck,” I say. “We need to know how they got there.”

  He drums his fingers on the table and says, “She had back problems and was very tense. I gave her a massage, that’s all.”

  Quinn’s eyes light up, and not with joy. “You know it’s against policy for a priest to touch a parishioner,” he snaps.

  Especially if she’s suing the archdiocese.

  “I’m well aware of that,” Ramon replies, “but it was no different than a platonic hug.”

  “The newspapers won’t see it that way.”

  Neither will the archbishop. Neither do I, for that matter.

  Quinn jabs a finger into Ramon’s face. “This is how we get into trouble,” he says. “You decide play fast and loose with the rules and the next thing you know, we’re getting sued for sexual harassment. You were putting yourself and the archdiocese at risk.”

  “It wasn’t like that, Francis. It was a gesture of friendship.”

  “It was a gesture of stupidity that’s going to play out in open court. Why didn’t you just invite Ms. Concepcion’s mother to file a civil suit?”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  “It’s my job to overreact.”

  I hold up my hand and say, “Let’s try to keep our eye on the ball.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Quinn barks. “I’m going to get an earful from the archbishop.”

  I won’t gain anything by arguing with him. I turn to Ramon and put the cards on the table. “Was there anything going on between you and Ms. Concepcion besides counseling and back rubs?”

  “No.”

  “Was there any hanky-panky of any kind?”

  “None.” He swallows hard and says, “I know how this must look. I’m not naive–but it’s the truth.”

  I believe him.

  Rosie gives him one last chance. “If there’s anything else that we should know,” she says, “this would be an excellent time for you to tell us.”

  He flashes a rare sign of anger. “Are you asking me if I slept with her?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “Then the an
swer, Rosie–in a word–is no.”

  Chapter 12

  “Nobody is Bigger Than the Church”

  “Members of the clergy must avoid the slightest appearance of impropriety.”

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

  Quinn’s bloated face is an unsightly shade of crimson when he says, “Now do you see why this job is so difficult?”

  I decide that his question is intended to be a rhetorical one and I don’t respond.

  The chief legal officer of the archdiocese is sitting behind an inlaid cherry wood desk in a spacious office at Church headquarters. The walls are lined with books that are divided between secular and religious tomes, and a large silver cross hangs behind his chair. A century-old version of the Latin Vulgate Bible is sitting on an antique end table. Except for the religious artifacts and a photo of the massive Quinn towering over the frail Pope, the elegant surroundings could pass for a senior partner’s office at a major law firm. The door is closed.

  Rosie and I are sitting in armchairs opposite the expansive desk. Shanahan muttered something about going back to the office to review motions for the O’Connell case and is nowhere to be found.

  Quinn is still expounding. “Do you know how hard it is to keep hundreds of priests from doing stupid things?” He answers his own question. “You give them training, you send them memos and they still screw up.”

  Guys like Quinn believe they have a God-given right to lay down the law. To the priests in San Francisco, he is the law.

  I offer a priestly platitude. “They’re human,” I say.

  He won’t let them off the hook so easily. “They have no idea how much damage they can inflict. Sometimes I wish I’d gone straight to law school instead of the seminary.”

  If he thinks it’s tough to keep a bunch of priests in line, he ought to meet some of the partners at my old law firm. “You wanted to see us?” I say.

  “I did.” He opens an envelope with a pearl-studded letter opener, then he takes a sip of tea from a bone china cup and says, “Father Aguirre’s case is very disturbing.”

  Thanks for bringing it to our attention.

  He temples his fingers in front of his face and says, “We’re appreciative of your efforts, but we think this matter should be handled internally.”

  Here we go again. “Who is included in the ‘we’ that you’re referring to?”

  “John and myself.”

  I’ve never trusted people who refer to themselves as “myself.” “We resolved this issue,” I say.

  He clears his throat and says, “Another member of our hierarchy expressed reservations.”

  We’re getting squeezed. “Who would that be?”

  “The archbishop.” He clears his throat again. If he keeps doing it, he’s going to rupture his larynx. “Let’s just say he isn’t. . .” He hesitates, cocks his head on an angle and says, “comfortable with you.”

  The back of my neck is turning red. “Why not?”

  His head returns to its upright and locked position when he says, “He didn’t say.”

  “I’d like to talk to him about it.”

  “That isn’t possible. He asked me to inform you that he expects you to resign.”

  And that’s that.

  But Rosie’s eyes blaze. “We aren’t going to back away from our obligations to our client just because the archbishop is uncomfortable,” she says.

  “If you’re going to be unreasonable, we’re going to have to let you go.”

  It’s my turn for indignant posturing. “You can’t let us go, Francis. We don’t work for you. Ramon is our client and only he can fire us.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll persuade him to do.”

  The hell you will. “We’ll file a grievance with the State Bar.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “That you attempted to coerce him into firing his lawyer.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  I wonder what the archbishop would say about that. “It’s a sin to swear, Francis.”

  “I’ll take it up at my next confession.”

  “We aren’t going to resign.”

  “You made the same mistake twenty years ago. You still think you’re bigger than the Church. Ramon suffers from the same malady.”

  And you suffer from being a self-righteous ass. “It wasn’t true then,” I say, “and it isn’t true now.” I look directly into his condescending eyes and force myself to keep my tone professional. “We aren’t going to resign,” I repeat.

  “We’ll wear you down.”

  “Are you threatening us?”

  “I’m making a promise. Nobody is bigger than the Church.”

  Except for you. “And nobody is bigger than the State Bar.”

  It’s a standoff.

  He lowers his voice. “We’ll destroy you,” he growls.

  God may have the power to smite me, but F.X. Quinn doesn’t. “If you try to take us down, we’ll bring you with us.”

  He sits there, fuming. “Well, then, you should know something else. Our insurance carrier informed me that your firm is not on their list of approved attorneys. Moreover, your firm is not on our list of approved lawyers, either. As a result, we are not in a position to pay your legal fees.”

  A huge surprise.

  “You may wish to reconsider your decision in light of these new developments,” he adds.

  Asshole. “We’ve already told you that we’re prepared to handle this matter pro bono.”

  He gives up. There’s nothing else he can threaten us with. “Suit yourself,” he says, “but we’re staying on as co-counsel.”

  Which will give him an opportunity to monitor our every move. I try to pursue our advantage by putting him back on his heels. “Did you hire somebody to follow us?”

  There’s a slight hesitation before he says, “Of course not.”

  “Did John?”

  “No.”

  “Somebody was tailing us on our way over here.”

  “We don’t hire investigators to follow co-counsel.”

  We’ll see if the Impala reappears. I ask him if he hired a PI to tail Concepcion.

  There’s a longer pause before he says, “Obtaining information about opposing counsel is part of our due diligence. It isn’t illegal and everybody does it.”

  He still hasn’t answered my question. “Did you hire a PI to get a scouting report?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “We’re on the same side.”

  He fingers his reading glasses and says, “We have a PI on retainer.”

  At least he admitted it. “We’d like to talk to him.”

  “I can’t allow you to do that.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “The information is privileged and confidential.”

  “Information gathered by a PI is not privileged.”

  “It’s still confidential.”

  “You can get a protective order.”

  “It’s a political issue. We can’t admit that we hired a PI to spy on an attorney. It will look terrible.”

  You should have thought of that beforehand. “It will look worse if I have to send you a subpoena.”

  “No judge will enforce it.”

  “They might after your refusal to cooperate appears on the front page of tomorrow morning’s Chronicle.” Time to see if he’ll blink. “What’s the name of the PI?”

  He sighs. Time to throw in the towel. “Nick Hanson. We’ve used him for years.”

  Well, that’s a bonus. Nick “the Dick” Hanson is a local legend and one of the few living contacts to San Francisco’s tawdry past. Still in robust health in his late eighties, the diminutive man about town has been a gumshoe for six decades. His agency in North Beach employs a dozen PI’s, all of whom are related to him, and he writes mysteries in his spare time. I love Nick.

  “We’re going to talk to him,” I say, “and we’ll need you to tell him to cooperate.”

  His tone is grudging wh
en he says, “I’ll need to talk to John about it.”