One good thing had come of the whole experience. With his parents gone, he’d been raised by his grandmother; it was almost worth having been raped. Without his grandmother’s love and support, he might have turned harder than he did. It hadn’t stopped him from joining a gang or doing stupid things—like shooting that other kid—but he’d remained generally good-hearted. He’d joined the Inca Boyz mostly for the feeling of having an extended family, somebody who thought of him as a brother. They thought he was tough because he always carried a gun, even nicknamed him Boom, but only Panch knew it was because he was afraid that the big priest would come back someday and finish the job.
Alejandro doubted whether the victims—mostly boys—mentioned in the other files would have welcomed being rescued from their parents as he had. So he got a dolly and took the filing cabinet to the parking garage and put it in the trunk of his car; no one had even questioned him about it then or since. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to do with it, just that he didn’t want the district attorney’s office to have the files anymore. Andrew Kane had told the DAs that justice wasn’t warranted, and they’d apparently agreed…or didn’t care.
He’d taken the files to Father Dugan and they’d opened the second drawer of the cabinet. It contained No Prosecution files, too, also vetted and signed by Andrew Kane or somebody from his law office; only these involved cases of police abuses. But again no prosecutions had been warranted.
After they’d glanced through most of the files in the two drawers, Dugan rubbed his face. Then he closed his eyes and appeared to be praying.
“So what do I do?” Alejandro asked when the priest opened his eyes again.
“I don’t know,” Dugan said. “Obviously, a stop has to be put to this outrage, and these predators must be removed from the priesthood and prosecuted where possible. But I worry about the impact of this on the innocent people who look to the church for support and hope.”
“Maybe the church doesn’t deserve that trust,” Alejandro said. “Look what’s been happening in Boston. What makes you think it’s any different here or in LA for that matter?”
“I don’t,” Dugan said. “Not after reading those files—though to me these are worse than anything in Boston because here, through the offices of Andrew Kane, the corruption of the church has been coupled with the corruption of the justice system. But at the same time, Alejandro, the evil done by men, even men of the cloth, does not mean that the teachings and example of Jesus Christ are meaningless. Don’t blame God for evil deeds.”
Dugan suggested that he act as an intermediary and go to Archbishop Fey. “He’s a good man. I can’t believe that he knows this is going on, or he would have put a stop to it. Maybe there is a way for the church to heal itself without damaging the faith of millions.”
Alejandro had his doubts. The church had let him down as a boy. He remembered the young priest who came to visit and told him that it was a mortal sin to lie, “especially about priests. God has a special place in hell for those people.” His parents had crossed themselves and agreed. Only his grandmother, whom he told about the incident later, supported him. “You have nothing to fear if truth is on your side.”
“You believe me, don’t you grandmother?” he’d asked.
“Of course, hijo, I know you are telling the truth.”
“We have to start somewhere,” Dugan said. So Alejandro finally agreed, only his friend was foiled in his attempt to reach Fey by O’Callahan, whom Garcia remembered as the young priest who’d told him not to lie.
“They’re all corrupt,” he complained bitterly to Dugan, who offered no argument.
There was certainly no debating it when O’Callahan came back to them with the offer to purchase the files for his interested party. They figured that had to mean Kane.
“Fey would have just asked me for the files, so perhaps he doesn’t know,” Dugan said hopefully. But there was no way to reach Fey except through O’Callahan.
That’s when Dugan suggested that he return the files to the new DA, Butch Karp. “All these cases occurred when either Bloom or Keegan were in office,” he said. “Butch isn’t like the others. I know the family well, and even consider myself to be on friendly terms with him. I believe him to be an honest man.”
Alejandro wouldn’t listen. “No way. He’s part of the system and the system had its chance to do the right thing and failed.”
Shortly thereafter, the priest had introduced him to Karp’s family. He found that he liked them, even started letting the twins hang out with him and collaborating with Giancarlo on his music. But he remained adamant against giving the files to Karp.
“The man’s a politician,” he said, “and he’s going to be running for office soon. Even if he’s an honest one, do you think he’s going to risk his career, maybe his life to take on Five-Oh, the Arch, and Andrew Kane? Fuck no, not for a bunch of ’Ricans and uptown nobodies he doesn’t know.”
“I think you’re wrong about Karp,” Dugan said. “What if we gave him a few files at a time, starting with the police files because it would be less of a shock? Test him to see how he reacts?”
Alejandro still wouldn’t listen. They’d even argued about it again the night that ML Rex was murdered. He’d gone over to see Dugan after the fight at the Hip-Hop Nightclub and told him that he was going to pick up the filing cabinet sometime in the next couple of days. “I want you out of this,” he said.
“Why? You don’t trust me now?” Dugan asked.
“You know better than that, man,” Alejandro said. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. One of these days, they’re going to try to reach out and take the files, and whoever’s in the way is going to go down.”
“I’m not afraid, and I’m not going to let you stand alone on this one,” Dugan replied. “It’s my church, too, remember? I think, though, that you need to reconsider going to Karp. He’s only been in a few months, but he’s already making waves with his anticorruption unit. Even taking on black city council members over payments they’ve received to protect some drug-dealing front in Harlem.”
Alejandro shrugged. “Maybe he’s a racist and just wants to push a few blacks around.”
“Not if he wants to be elected district attorney,” Dugan said.
“Exactly my point,” Alejandro said. “If he wants to be elected, he might hit on some Harlem nightclub, but the Arch in New York?”
“You have to trust someone, Alejandro.”
“I trust you and I trust my homeboys. Now get off this Karp thing; it ain’t happening.” They’d exchanged a few heated words and Alejandro had stomped off into the night.
When Alejandro left, Dugan looked again through the files, trying to think of a way to get Karp involved that Alejandro would accept. When the priest looked up again, it was 12:15, ML Rex was dead, and a gun with Alejandro’s fingerprints had been kicked under the limousine.
The next ting Alejandro knew, he’d been framed for murder. Then he’d had no choice but let Dugan, as the anonymous caller, go through with his plan to test Karp.
Dugan had practically crowed when Karp reacted as he’d predicted. Still, Alejandro wasn’t sure. Especially after he saw the photograph in the Times where Kane and Karp were standing together, the former with his hand on “his buddy’s” shoulder. “Kane and Karp, get another K in there and you’ll have the KKK,” Alejandro said only half jokingly. “We still haven’t seen what he would do with the priest files.”
Then Vincent Paglia was found on the rocks at the East River’s edge of Hell’s Gate, and he didn’t know what to think. On one hand, there was no longer a living witness trying to frame him; on the other, there was no living witness to say that there had ever been a frame. He’d been livid when he learned that the police No Prosecution files were taken from the DA’s office.
“I told you,” he yelled at Dugan. “You going to tell me somebody just walked right into the courthouse and took the files without Karp knowing?” Only reports from Dugan’s spies on
the police force that the DA was still going after the worst of the offenders by demanding the Internal Affairs files, changed his mind. But he had his doubts about who was going to win—Kane with all his money and connections, or Karp, who couldn’t even keep his offices secure. He hesitated handing the DA the third test…until his hand was forced.
All the killings had certainly proved that Kane and his people would stop at nothing to get the files. But the lesson was brought home to Alejandro even more bitterly by the murder of his friend Francisco. The only problem for Kane and his killers, however, was that it made up his mind for him. He’d asked Dugan to play “Deep Priest” one more time, “but tell him to send Marlene.”
Dugan had called him back at four in the morning. “I just talked to a woman who was not at all pleased to be dragged from her bed after not seeing her husband for several months,” he said. “I will have to speak to that woman about her vocabulary, especially when directed at a man of the cloth. However, she will meet you on the East Balcony at 5:15, as you asked.”
Alejandro looked at the clock: 5:10. He fiddled with the key to the big locker he’d rented in the concourse near the Hudson Line, normally used for suitcases by travelers, but this one containing two large boxes of No Prosecution files. He’d had to bring them there himself, as Pancho Ramirez would have nothing to do with it after Francisco was killed.
“What the fuck you talkin’ about, dog,” Pancho had yelled. “Let the system take care of it? What fuckin’ system? The one that got Francisco shot? The one that fucked you over when you was a kid? The system is for rich, white muthafuckas, homes. It could care less about you or me, or even a fine upstandin’ citizen like Francisco.”
“I have to trust somebody, Panch,” he’d replied. “I can’t do this alone. Karp has done his part so far…”
“How do you know they was shootin’ at Karp? Maybe it was a setup and they were trying to kill you,” Pancho interrupted. “Maybe Karp set you up.”
“I don’t think so. The cop that got shot was a friend of his, and those bullets were too close to Karp to have been part of a setup,” Alejandro said holding out his hand. “Come on, Panch, help me get the boxes to Grand Central. It’s going to take me a long time by myself.”
But his angry friend batted his hand away. “You want to play with the man, you go play with the man by yourself. I’m going back to the Inca Boyz, where I know the homies ain’t sold out.”
• • •
Alejandro looked at the clock again. 5:12. He needed to go to the bathroom and decided that there was time. Trotting down the marble stairway, he looked up and noticed that the big bearded man in the plaid shirt was glaring at him. The man looked quickly away, but Alejandro knew that it had not been just idle observation. He turned quickly and went down the concourse to the food court area in the lower level. On the escalator near the bottom, he looked up and saw the man peer over the edge.
Running down the last couple of steps, Alejandro considered finding a police officer though suddenly none seemed to be in sight. Can’t trust any of them anyway, he thought. Instead, he ran down the aisle on the left and ducked inside the men’s rest room next to the Mexican food kiosk. He went inside a stall, and for want of a better idea, stood on the toilet like they do in the movies, wishing he had not given up carrying a gun. Feeling in his pocket, he took out the key and shoved it up in the plastic box holding the toilet paper.
The door opened and he heard someone enter. He held his breath as he heard the person bend over and look beneath the stalls. Then he glanced out through the crack in the door; an insane red-rimmed eye was looking in at him. The next moment, the door crashed in on him, as the brute came through, knocking him back against the wall.
In his terror, Alejandro recognized his assailant. The beard wasn’t there ten years earlier, but it was the same man: the priest who had raped him and was now back to finish the job.
Lichner grabbed Alejandro by the neck and held a big curved knife against his belly. “Vare are the files?” he demanded, his breath smelling like something had rotted inside him.
Alejandro reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “Here, a locker upstairs in the Hudson terminal.”
“Vich key?”
Alejandro chose the key to the janitor’s closet at the courthouse. “This one,” he croaked due to the pressure of the giant’s hand on his throat.
“Then go to hell,” Lichner whispered and plunged the knife into Garcia.
Alejandro slumped to the floor where he lay holding his hands over his belly in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. He saw the big sandaled feet of his attacker walk quickly away and felt himself losing consciousness. Then there seemed to be some sort of confrontation, a yell and a loud crash; there were more footsteps, these coming toward him. A female voice cursed, and then the face of Marlene Ciampi appeared, telling him it would be all right.
“Key,” he whispered.
“What?” she asked. “Take it easy, help is on the way.”
“Key,” he repeated. “Toilet paper.” He tried to point with his eyes. The effort cost him, but was worth it when she at last understood and reached into the toilet paper holder and pulled out the locker key.
“The Hudson concourse,” he said and passed out.
• • •
Late that afternoon, Marlene and Butch were arguing in his office. They’d spent most of the day reading through the files and were fighting over what to do with them. He said he planned to pursue criminal charges “wherever possible, up to and including Archbishop Fey, his man, O’Callahan, and Andrew Kane.”
Marlene wanted him to wait and think about the ramifications. “What you have in those two boxes could destroy the Catholic Church in New York City, probably the state and, if the connection to the murders and cover-ups in New Mexico gets out, maybe the country. That’s hurting a lot of people who count on the church, who need the church.”
“Goddammit Marlene,” he exclaimed. “I’m supposed to ignore sexual assault, most of it on children, and murder, as well as a pattern of criminal conduct that goes from the parish priests right up through the archbishop? Not to mention the office of the man who could be this city’s next mayor? What kind of a DA, what kind of a person, would that make me?”
“One who understands that there is a bigger picture here,” Marlene shot back. “One who can see that there are more lives at stake here than those represented by these files.”
• • •
Marlene had walked into Grand Central that morning still feeling toasty after several hours of lovemaking, wishing she were still in bed, getting ready for round…was it five or six? She was just in time to see Alejandro disappear down the dining concourse, followed by a big man who walked with a limp. Warm and sensuous had been replaced with cold and afraid as she’d raced across the lobby, cursing herself for not bringing her gun. She’d wanted to do things Butch’s way, and now she was going to have to stop a man the size of a bear from killing a boy.
She arrived at the rest room too late to prevent the attack. She heard the commotion and the voices and ran in just as Lichner was trying to leave. She struck at him with her fists and tried to get a kick in at his groin, but he had swatted her aside like an insect and left her dazed just inside the door. She was about to get up and give chase, when she saw Alejandro lying in a pool of blood.
Whipping out her cell phone, she called for an ambulance and ran to the boy. He told her where to find the key, after which, she did her best to keep pressure on the wound until the paramedics arrived.
A detective was waiting outside the rest room when she emerged. She gave him a statement, saying she heard yelling from the rest room and saw a large bearded man with a limp emerge holding a bloody knife. “I looked in the rest room and saw the boy.”
“Is that it?” the detective asked. “You know the suspect or the victim?”
“Can’t say I do,” she replied. Can’t or won’t, she thought. It’s probably not
fair to you, but I don’t trust the NYPD at this moment.
After giving her statement, she casually strolled upstairs where she found John Jojola waiting for her. She had called home after the paramedics arrived and, after explaining to her husband what had happened, she had asked him to have Jojola meet her.
“I’ll come down,” Butch had said, sounding hurt.
“No baby, nothing against you, but you need to get into the office and put out the fires there and then get Giancarlo over to the hospital, remember? Besides, people would recognize you if you show up here, maybe the wrong people. I think we need to keep this quiet at the moment. Send John. And Butch?”
“Yeah?” he pouted.
“I’m expecting a repeat performance tonight.” As anticipated, he sounded much happier when he said good-bye.
Jojola had followed her to the Hudson concourse lockers at a discreet distance just in case the lockers were being watched. But there were no suspicious-looking characters, certainly no large, limping priests. She opened the locker as Jojola pretended to be fiddling with one next door and saw the two big boxes. “Where’s that bigger boat I was talking about?”
They borrowed a porter’s dolly and got the boxes out to the curb, where they hailed a cab. “100 Centre Street,” Marlene said as they got in.
“The courthouse?”
“Yep, and step on it.”
• • •
Now she was wishing that she’d taken the files somewhere else. They were both bound to be a little tense with Giancarlo in the hospital. Butch had gone home at lunch and then took him to Beth Israel to get checked in and left him with the doctors, who wanted to run a series of tests, including new CAT and MRI scans.
“The docs told me it was going to take all afternoon,” he said when he got back to the office where Marlene was plowing through the files. “Might as well work to get my mind off of it.”
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