by Henry Hack
I stayed at a cheap motel in Astoria and a week later TWA offered me a job at LaGuardia Airport in northern Queens as a trainee mechanic on the four-to-twelve shift. I accepted and got a one-room apartment in a converted garage with my first paycheck.
During my stay at the motel I went to civil court and had my name legally changed to Francis Andrew Manzo. Francis for Saint Francis who I admired and studied in a high school project, Andrew for Michael Simon’s father, and Manzo, using five of the twelve letters of my real last name. The judge, whose name plate read, Silvio Notarantonio, smiled and said, “No explanation necessary, Giuseppe. Request granted.”
I registered for two courses at St. John’s University for the upcoming fall semester and planned a visit to my old high school in Brooklyn. I had decided I had a desire – more a burning need – to continue my service to society. I had proudly served my country in the Marine Corps, and now I wanted to serve God in the priesthood. And I knew one of the main reasons I wanted to become a priest was to atone for the deaths of Andrew and Veronica Simon and the orphaning of their son, Michael.
Although I hadn’t gone to confession, I couldn’t shake the shadow of guilt that hovered over me day and night. And working my way up to a Class A mechanic at Trans World Airlines wouldn’t disperse that shadow. I needed a spiritual solution, if any solution to my inner conflict existed, and I needed advice on my legal and moral status, even though I hadn’t pulled the trigger. But I did run away, and I didn’t turn myself in, did I? If anyone could help me with these problems I knew my old high school principal at Bishop Loughlin could, and his secretary kindly set aside an hour to meet with him two days from now.
. . .
Father William McClanahan welcomed me into his office with a broad smile. “How are you doing Noonz, since you left us three years ago? Have you made an impression on the big, bad world out there?”
Deciding not to mention my name change I said, “I doubt that, Father, but I have an idea how I can do that. That’s why I’m here, for your advice and guidance.”
“Oh, my God, Joey, don’t tell me you heard the calling?”
“I think so,” I said. “How do I proceed?”
“Thinking so is not the standard. You need a bit more conviction than that. What have you been doing these past three years?”
“Serving my country in the Marine Corps.”
“Ah! The Corps scared you so badly you now want to run back into the all-loving, all-encompassing arms of Jesus?”
“No, Father,” I said, as we shared a laugh. “But my drill instructor always reminded me although my soul does belong to Jesus Christ –”
“Your ass belongs to the Corps, right?”
“Right. Don’t tell me –?”
“Yes, a long time ago, between the World Wars. The discipline and training have served me well my entire life.”
“Then you’ll help a fellow grunt?”
“Were you a good Marine? No disciplinary problems? No AWOL’s?”
“I was a good Marine, Father. They wanted me to stay in and dangled a couple of good offers to do so. I came close to accepting.”
He asked me about the offers and when I finished telling him, he said, “But you had the urge, the feeling back then, that you had a higher calling?”
“Yes, sir.”
He sat back in his chair, steepled his hands together and pursed his lips. I looked into his dark brown eyes and wondered what he would say. I stared at the simple wooden crucifix on the wall behind his head, praying for his blessing. He relaxed and said, “I’ll make a call. Go outside and get yourself a coke.”
“A coke, Father? It’s bourbon or coffee now.”
He smiled and said, “I should have known, Noonz. Semper Fi.”
“Oorah,” I said as I left his office.
Ten minutes later he called me back inside and said, “You have an appointment with Father James Johansson at the Office of Vocations at the Seminary House in Douglaston, Queens. Ten o’clock, Thursday morning. Can you make it?”
“I certainly can.”
“Good. Keep me in the loop on your progress.”
“I will, Father,” I said, feeling my resolve to open up to him fading fast.
The canny Priest held my hand in his as we shook prior to my departure. He said, “You’re not holding back on me are you, Giuseppe?”
“Uh, I –”
“You didn’t kill anybody, did you?”
He wasn’t smiling, and I wondered what sixth sense this man had. I said, “Of course not, Father. Why would you say something like that?”
“Joey, I’ve been around a long time. Something is bothering you. I don’t mind if you don’t reveal it to me. But you must reveal it to Father Johansson. You cannot enter the seminary, much less the priesthood, without a clear conscience and a clean soul. Do you understand that?”
“I do, Father, and you are right, something is bothering me, and now I’m thinking I should reveal it to you before I go to that interview. Maybe you will advise me to give up my desire to enter the priesthood right here and now.”
“How bad is it, Joey? Do you want this in the form of a formal confession?”
“No, Father, not yet. I am uncertain what sin I committed, and if I am legally in trouble. And when you asked if I had killed someone, you didn’t know how close you were.”
McClanahan reached behind him and withdrew a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon and two glasses from a wall cabinet. He poured two healthy shots into the glasses, no ice, unlike Sergeant Hobbs had preferred, and we both took a healthy swallow. “Tell me all about it,” he said.
I spilled it out, every detail of it, which I remembered as if it were yesterday, and which I no doubt would remember all of my life. He interrupted twice to ask a question, and by the time I finished speaking, the bottle of bourbon was about a third gone. He said, “That’s one helluva story, Joey. I remember reading about those murders, but I don’t remember reading that a second suspect was involved.”
“They concluded Pete was the sole killer, if what they told the press was true.”
“You think they may have suspected a second guy, but withheld that fact?”
“I’m certain of it. I know I left some blood there, and I had to have left fingerprints somewhere in the bedroom, or the house, or on Pete’s car.”
“Why didn’t you turn yourself in? I mean you were forced to participate, so I don’t see how you could be guilty of a crime. And, if so, I believe you did not commit any sin that night.”
“I was afraid by merely being there, I was guilty of something. What do you think?”
“I’m no lawyer, but I do know someone who can advise us on that. The Diocese retains a law firm to address the many issues that arise in the church and schools.”
“Do they sue the parents who stiff you on tuition payments?”
“I wish that was all there was, but I’d rather not get into those other issues now. Let’s get your situation addressed before you go on your interview. What’s your schedule for the rest of the day?”
“I have to be at work at the airport at four.”
He picked up his phone and dialed his secretary on the intercom. “Joanie, please get me Ralph Dugan from Jackson, Rubin, Slater on the phone.”
Not two minutes later the phone rang and McClanahan said, “Ralph, I need no more than an hour of your time, if you’re available now.”
Evidently Ralph Dugan was available, or made himself available, to his client, because after he hung up the phone the good Priest said, “He’ll be here at two. Dugan’s their criminal law specialist. Their office is within walking dist
ance. Let’s go get some lunch.”
. . .
As we were walking back from the local sandwich shop stuffed with corned beef and latkes, a man came striding up behind us and said, “Hello, Father.”
“Hello, Ralph,” he said, smiling and extending his hand. “This is Joey, and he is sorely in need of your expert advice.”
I shook hands with the middle-aged lawyer whose furrowed brow, darting eyes, and moist hand gave the impression of a worried man who wished he were somewhere else. I wondered what the other issues he and the church routinely dealt with. “I hope I can help,” he said as we entered the school and headed for the elevator.
We settled into our wooden chairs in the principal’s austere office, McClanahan’s secretary brought coffee in, and he got right to it. “Tell Ralph what happened from the time you got in the car with Selewski until the time you ran out the door for home.”
Although the lawyer had a yellow pad on the arm of his chair and a ballpoint pen poised above it, he took not one note, but listened intently to my words and stared into my eyes until I had finished. He said, “I assume you are here because you are a former student and sought out the advice of Father McClanahan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you want to be a priest, I also assume?”
“Yes.”
“And you want to know if your actions on the night of the crime would prevent that?”
“Yes.”
“My short answer is no, but –”
I saw McClanahan grin and he said, “Lawyers always have to put a but in their answers somewhere. Sorry, Ralph, please proceed.”
“Here’s the law on this situation. The New York State Penal Code defines what happened that night as Murder in the First Degree – an intentional act to kill someone. Maybe you could say Pete shot at the guy because he was shooting at him, but what about the wife? There is another subdivision called Felony Murder, which means if you kill someone during the course of committing a crime – and the crime here was First Degree Burglary – you are also guilty of murder. Either charge could get you a seat in the electric chair upon conviction.”
So far, so good, I thought, as I stared at Dugan, knowing some other stuff was coming.
“However, by just being there, you are classified as an accomplice, and are as legally guilty as Pete Selewski.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I was not there voluntarily. I was forced to be there by Pete. He threatened to kill me after all. What the hell was I supposed to do?”
“What if Joey had turned himself in?” McClanahan asked.
“That would have been the worst decision of his life,” Dugan said, “other than his present desire to become a priest.”
“Screw you, Ralph,” McClanahan said. “And you profess to be a fellow Catholic?”
As I was wondering what the hell was going on between the lawyer and the priest, Dugan said, “You should not be convicted of any crime committed at that scene because you acted under duress, an affirmative defense which states you are not guilty of a crime if someone forced you to do it against your will.”
There you go. Duress. I was innocent!
“But there’s a problem –”
“Here we go again,” McClanahan said, shaking his head.
“The affirmative defense of duress must be raised at trial. In other words, you have to be arrested, indicted, and put on trial first before that can happen. Do you think the jury would believe you, Joey?”
“Would you believe me, Mr Dugan, if you were my lawyer?”
“Probably not, but that wouldn’t matter.”
“What if I take a lie detector test?”
“Not admissible.”
“I know, but if the test says I’m truthful, at least you will believe me, right?”
“Okay, I believe you, and we go to trial, and I have to put you on the stand. You claim the defense of duress and on cross-examination the prosecutor asks if you have any corroboration for your story.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, other than your testimony, do you have a witness who could state you were telling the truth? A witness at the scene who could confirm your version of the events?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then the prosecutor tells the jury you are making this whole thing up to avoid conviction for this brutal crime, and he throws in the gory details of the bloody murders once again in case they have forgotten them. Now, who do you think the jury will believe?”
“Me! I’m telling the truth!”
“A young police officer and his young wife are dead. Their six-month old child will never know them. You, young man, would be found guilty – in a hurry – and sent up the Hudson River to Sing Sing state prison to fry in the electric chair.”
“Shit! This isn’t right. This isn’t fair.”
“No, it isn’t,” Dugan said, “hence, my previous advice. Keep your mouth closed and never mention that night to anyone – ever. What say you, Father?”
“I agree with counsel,” he said. “Keep your mouth shut to everyone but Father Johansson at the seminary. You are going to have to bare your soul to him with no holdbacks.”
“And with any luck, young man,” Dugan said, “you will be rejected as a candidate for the priesthood and go forth to lead a much happier and productive life.”
I thought that comment would get another sharp retort from McClanahan, but he just shook his head and said, “You’d better get to your job, Joey, and keep me advised of your progress. Good luck with your interview, and I hope you get admitted.”
“Thank you, Father,” I said. “And thank you, Mr. Dugan, for your legal advice. If the cops ever come for me, you will be the first person I’ll call.”
“Good decision, young man, and if I fail you, you can then call the good Father McClanahan. I’m sure he will solemnly walk with you from your cell on Death Row, down that grim prison hallway, to your certain appointment with Old Sparky.”
If that remark was meant to scare me into permanent silence about the night of the murders of Andy and Veronica Simon, it sure did the trick.
FOUR
Father Johansson’s secretary escorted me into his spacious, expensively-furnished office. I looked around at the many framed pictures on the walls of him with various cardinals and bishops resplendent in scarlet and gold, and at least two recognizable past Popes of the Church. A huge silver crucifix, at least four times as large as the one in McClanahan’s office, was on the wall directly above his polished mahogany desk. He greeted me warmly, a big smile on his ruddy face. “Father McClanahan gave you his blessing and his recommendation,” he said. “I see you have a solid Catholic education, but no college training.”
“I enrolled in a couple of day classes at St. John’s. I work nights at TWA,” I said, more intimidated now than I was by Sergeant Hobbs on my first day at boot camp. I was surrounded by the power and the majesty of the church and knew, despite his broad smile, I was shortly to be given the bum’s rush out the door by the head inquisitor.
“Excellent. Now let’s explore your desire to enter the priesthood, to find out if it’s genuine, or as your former principal said, ‘to find out what you may be running away from.’”
“I never could fool him, and I have already decided to bare my soul to you. I will not enter the seminary under false pretenses. And after I tell you everything, if you shoo me out the door, I will certainly understand, and will have to live with that.”
I imagined his eyes glowing like bright-red burning coals as he said, “Go ahead, Joey. Take your time. You’re my lone prospective candidate appointment toda
y.”
“For starters, Father, my name is no longer Giuseppe Mastronunzio. It’s Francis Manzo. I legally changed it a couple of weeks ago.”
“I can understand the apparent reason for doing so,” he said with a chuckle, “but is there a more non-apparent reason you did it?”
“Yes, to continue to avoid the police for a crime I did not commit, but which I witnessed over three years ago.”
“Would you like something to drink before you continue?”
“Water would be fine, Father.”
The Priest got up and went to a sideboard and came back with a pitcher of ice cubes and water and two glasses. He poured us each a glass and we took a swallow. He fixed his eyes on me and said, “I am intrigued, Francis. Please begin.”
I told him everything, as I had with Father McClanahan and Ralph Dugan, including the reason I didn’t turn myself in. I bet I spoke for twenty minutes, maybe more, and Father Johansson did not interrupt me once. He did take a note or two on a small pad.
“That is an interesting story, young man. Tell me again about the felony murder statute and the defense of duress.”
When I finished he said, “I have to agree with you, Francis. If I had heard you testify that you were present at the scene, but was forced to participate in the attempted burglary, I probably would not have believed you myself.”
“Father, I have now, finally, come to the realization, despite my innocence, if I was on the jury I wouldn’t believe some punk kid telling this tale to save his ass… er, butt, either. Come on, a young married couple shot to death? One of them a police officer? With a six-month old baby, who would never know his loving parents, crying his eyes out down the hall? And if I had turned myself in I would already have been electrocuted or been in prison for the rest of my life.”
“Yes, I see. A life wasted. A life you now want to devote to God and mankind. And to atone for what, Francis?”
“I don’t know. Maybe being there that night. Maybe not trying to grab the gun from Pete’s hand. Maybe by running away without seeing if I could help them. I hope you will confirm what Father McClanahan told me, and what I now myself believe, what I was involved in that night was not a sin. I have wracked my brain, studied the bible, studied the teachings of the church and the saints, and cannot find a sin – mortal or venial – I might have committed that night.”