Until Judgment Day

by Christine McGuire

  She paused. “The People call Bishop Jeffrey Davidson.”

  Bishop Davidson wore his ordinary walking dress, a red-trimmed black cassock over a starched white shirt with a clerical collar. A pectoral cross hung around his neck on a gold chain and a gold ring with a cross appliqué on top, symbolizing betrothal and conjugal fidelity to the Church, adorned his right ring finger.

  The Bishop was lean and gangly with reddish brown hair that stuck stiffly out from under a violet zucchetto, and his wire-rimmed eyeglasses perched lopsidedly on his freckled nose over intense cobalt-blue eyes. His pleasant, youthful face reminded Mackay of Huck Finn.

  Davidson took the oath administered by the grand juror who sat at a table beneath the oak platform where Foreman Gilbertson presided from the judge’s chair. He acknowledged the seventeen members who sat in the jury box, then sat in the elevated witness chair, clasped his hands on a manila folder in his lap, and watched Mackay expectantly.

  “Good morning, Bishop Davidson. Before we begin, I must advise you that you are appearing before a duly constituted Grand Jury that is investigating the murders of Reverends Jacques Duvoir, James Benedetti, and John Thompson. The oath you swore means your testimony has the same force and effect as in a court of law, and you must tell the truth or subject yourself to perjury prosecution. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your attorney is in the hall, and you will be permitted a reasonable opportunity to step outside the Grand Jury room to consult with counsel if you so desire.”

  “Thank you.”

  “State your name and occupation, please.”

  “Jeffrey Allen Davidson. I’ve served the priest-hood all my adult life. Pope John Paul the Second appointed me Bishop of the Monterey Diocese of the American Catholic Church in nineteen-ninety.”

  “What is a diocese, and what are your duties there?”

  “The Diocese is the Church’s basic unit, and each is headed by a bishop who is the chief liturgical figure, and supervisor of all Diocese activities.”

  Mackay consulted a computer-generated printout she had downloaded from the Internet. “I would like to paraphrase a passage from your Catholic Encyclopedia:

  “The bishop has the right to admit priests to, or exclude priests from, the ministry in his diocese, and to assign priests to parishes and other duties.

  “Is that an accurate description of your authority as Bishop, as it pertains to priests in your Diocese?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Diocese maintains personnel records for all of your priests?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

  “As head of the Diocese, those records are under your supervision and control?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The subpoena under which you testify here today required you to produce personnel records for Reverends Duvoir, Benedetti, and Thompson, is that correct?”

  “You know it did, you signed it.”

  “So I did. Let’s discuss Reverend Duvoir first. Did you bring his file?”

  “Yes, it’s right here.” He picked the manila folder up for her to see, and replaced it on his lap.

  Mackay stepped close to the witness stand. “May I have the file, please?”

  He started, pulled it back, then handed it to her.

  “Please describe Reverend Duvoir’s history of duties with the Diocese.”

  “Jacques Duvoir came to the Diocese of Monterey upon graduation from University of San Francisco with a Doctor of Divinity degree, in nineteen seventy. He has served in the Diocese continuously since, as Associate Pastor at various parishes before being appointed Pastor at Española’s Holy Spirit Parish in nineteen eighty-one.”

  “Was he Pastor of Holy Spirit Parish at the time he was killed?”

  “In title.”

  “Can you explain that?”

  “I relieved Reverend Duvoir of pastoral duties earlier this year. He had a health problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “Type 2 diabetes.”

  “Did he take medication?”

  “Insulin injections were prescribed.”

  “How old was Reverend Duvoir when he was murdered?”

  “Fifty-six.”

  “A young man.” Mackay smiled.

  Davidson didn’t respond. “Depends on your point of view.”

  “I suppose it does.” Mackay bit her lower lip. “Most people with type 2 diabetes work and live normal lives by eating properly, exercising, and taking their medication, yet Reverend Duvoir was so disabled by the disease that he needed to be relieved of his duties?”

  “That was my opinion at the time.”

  “Did his physician concur?”

  “As Bishop, it was my decision.”

  “The question was whether Reverend Duvoir’s physician concurred with your opinion.”

  “I didn’t consult his doctor, I consulted God.”

  “Nevertheless, I can subpoena Reverend Duvoir’s doctor and his medical records, if necessary.”

  Davidson sat upright and rubbed his hands together as if to wash away an especially virulent bacteria. “None of this has anything to do with his death.”

  “You’re so certain?”

  His ice-cold eyes bored into Mackay. “I’m certain.”

  “I remind you that you are under oath and perjury is a serious offense. Earlier, you testified that you relieved him of his duties due to health problems—was there another reason you relieved Reverend Duvoir of his pastoral duties?”

  “Yes.”

  Davidson sucked his lips in, chewed on them while he pondered his answer, and blew them out. “I’d like to consult with my attorney.”

  Mackay and the jurors waited for several minutes. When Davidson returned, Mackay repeated the question.

  “I said Reverend Duvoir had health problems, not that I relieved him because of them. You inferred that.”

  “All right, what was the reason?”

  “The Reverend was—ah—the subject of an investigation.”

  The jurors’ heads jerked in unison like marionettes yanked by the same string.

  “An investigation conducted by whom?” Mackay asked.

  “The Diocese. About a year ago, my Finance Officer’s credit-card audit uncovered numerous charges by R-O-L Company, a vendor he didn’t recognize. He looked into it and learned that R-O-L stands for ‘Roulette-On-Line,’ an Internet casino scam.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Finance Officer immediately notified me and our legal department. We learned that for the past couple of years, Reverend Duvoir had been laying down bets with half-a-dozen web-based casinos using his parish computer. He covered the losses with Diocese credit cards.”

  Mackay flicked her tongue over her lips. “How much money did he lose?”

  “Fifty-three thousand dollars so far, but we’re still auditing past years. It might be more.”

  “Has the Diocese paid the bills?”

  “Not all of them. I froze payment on all invoices and charges incurred by Reverend Duvoir. Our legal department contacted the casino by e-mail—they have a ‘contact us’ hot key on their web page—and suggested they forgive current charges and refund prior payments.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They e-mailed our attorney, Mr. Scalisi, back and said that—in their words—‘no one welches on a gambling debt and gets away with it.’”

  “Sounds ominous. Then what?”

  “We disputed the unpaid charges directly with the banks that issued the cards. After some negotiation, they reversed them and refused to tender payment to R-O-L.”

  “How much was disputed?”

  “As I said, more than fifty thousand dollars.”

  Mackay’s right eyebrow lifted involuntarily. “Who eventually sustains the losses?”

  “The casino, although I don’t see how they’ve actually lost anything. Then the threats started.”

  “Threats?”

  “A man who never ide
ntified himself called repeatedly, at all hours of the day and night. When I wouldn’t agree to pay, he threatened to send ‘enforcers’ to visit.”

  “Visit whom?”

  “He didn’t say, but it isn’t hard to figure out who he had in mind.”

  “Did you contact the police for protection?”

  “God protects us.”

  “And Reverend Duvoir?”

  Davidson sighed. “We were evaluating treatment programs. Jacques was sick but, aside from his addiction, he was an exemplary and revered priest who was loved by his parishioners. I’m afraid your witch hunt has tainted his memory forever.”

  “Grand Jury testimony is secret.”

  “That’s what President Clinton thought about his relationship with Monica Lewinski.”

  “Is there anything else we need to know about Reverend Duvoir, Bishop Davidson?”

  His eyes were wet-shiny blue pools. “You already know too much.”

  “Would you like to take a short break?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Let’s move on then. The subpoena also ordered you to produce personnel records for Reverends Benedetti and Thompson. Did you bring those records with you?”

  Davidson straightened his back and cleared his throat. “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “And I refuse to answer questions about them.”

  “Refusing on the grounds that truthful answers to my questions would tend to incriminate you?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Well, Bishop Davidson, that is the only grounds for refusing to answer my questions without being held in contempt of court.”

  “The order Judge Keefe issued isn’t enforceable so long as Judge Woods has our motion to quash your subpoenas under submission.”

  “If that is your attorney’s advice, it’s bad advice, and following it will cause you trouble,” Mackay admonished him. “Why don’t you step outside the jury room and consult with legal counsel?”

  Davidson hesitated, then stood. “Perhaps I shall.”

  “That’s not what I said.” Scalisi’s voice rose as he addressed Bishop Davidson. “You told me you were bringing all three files.”

  Escalante stood at a discreet distance, gazing out the window, trying unsuccessfully not to overhear the confidential attorney-client communication.

  “I changed my mind, now calm down before you have a heart attack.” Davidson patted Scalisi’s arm.

  Mackay opened the door and stepped into the hallway, where she saw the two men in a heated discussion.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Scalisi, you should reconsider the advice you gave Bishop Davidson,” Mackay said. “Keefe’s order is valid unless a higher court vacates it.”

  “I told him that before he testified,” Scalisi said. “He only just now told me he refused to answer your questions concerning Reverends Thompson and Benedetti.”

  Davidson shook his head resolutely. “Neither of you realizes the terrible, unnecessary can of worms you’d open by dredging up those priests’ past.”

  “So they were part of the gambling problem?” Mackay asked.

  “I would not answer your questions before the Grand Jury, Ms. Mackay,” Davidson said with a sigh, “and I’ll not answer them here in the hall.”

  Mackay barged ahead as if he hadn’t spoken. “Has your Diocese received complaints of sexual misconduct against Thompson, Benedetti, or Duvoir?”

  “I can see you aren’t one to take ‘no’ for an answer.” Davidson glared, and sat quietly thinking for a moment. “All right, Ms. Mackay, I shall make an exception and answer that one question directly. The—”

  “Bishop, I advise you—” Scalisi interrupted, but was silenced by a quick shake of the Bishop’s head.

  Davidson kept his eyes riveted on Mackay even as he spoke softly to his lawyer. “Gerald, there can be no harm in my answering that question honestly. Perhaps if I do, Ms. Mackay will be satisfied and drop her witch hunt.”

  Davidson crossed himself. “Ms. Mackay, I give you my sacred word as a Christian and Bishop that neither I nor the Monterey Diocese of the American Catholic Church has ever received a complaint alleging sexual misconduct on the part of Fathers Thompson, Benedetti, or Duvoir.”

  “I believe you,” Mackay said softly, “but I’m still convinced that they have something in common, and if we don’t figure out what it is soon, there’ll be more dead priests. Are you willing to risk their lives?”

  “If necessary.”

  “You’ll go to jail until you decide to cooperate, no matter how long that takes,” Mackay promised. “Jail’s not a nice place.”

  Davidson smiled benevolently. “As a divinity student in the sixties, I marched with Martin Luther King and spent a month in a Mississippi jail cell eating cockroaches and hominy grits—I don’t know which was worse. In the seventies,” he continued with a wry smile, “I boycotted the grape fields beside Cesar Chavez. Valley jails are nicer than Mississippi’s but they’re no picnic.

  “In the eighties, I was arrested a dozen times outside abortion clinics from San Francisco to San Diego. In the nineties, it was Bosnia. I’ve spent more nights in jail than many felons, and a few more won’t hurt me.”

  Mackay shook her head. “If I recess the Grand Jury now, they’ll take off for the New Year’s holiday and won’t reconvene before next Monday—maybe later.”

  “I understand,” Davidson answered.

  “Are you always so stubborn?”

  “Yes, he is,” Scalisi interjected. “In fact, he’s being cooperative today.”

  “I’ll arrange for Sheriff Granz to put you in Q,” Mackay said, then explained, “Q is the security unit where a high-risk inmate can be isolated and protected from the jail’s general population.”

  “I don’t want to be isolated or protected.”

  “Our jail’s full of criminals who’ll slit your throat for the gold in your cross and ring, not to mention gangbangers—there are members of the Hispanic Norteños and Sureños gangs in custody all the time. You might not live till next Monday.”

  “Hispanic gang members are Catholics, Ms. Mackay. They won’t harm a Catholic Bishop, and they’ll see to it that no one else hurts me, either. I’ll be safer in jail than walking from my rectory to my church.”

  “See what I mean?” Scalisi asked Mackay.

  “You worry too much, Gerald.” Davidson stood. “Now, if you lawyers are finished, I’d like to go to jail.”

  Chapter 20

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 30, 11:30 A.M.

  OFFICE OF SHERIFF GRANZ

  “I BELIEVED BISHOP DAVIDSON when he said none of the three priests were sex offenders,” Mackay said.

  Escalante made brief eye contact with Granz, Miller, and Mackay. It was cold in Granz’ office and she tugged her jacket tight over her chest. “Then, they must all be part of the gambling problem. Every parish has computers with Internet access.”

  “How do you know that?” Mackay asked.

  “Bishop Davidson told me as I was walking him to the jail,” Escalante answered. “And to gamble on-line, they would have to download casino software.”

  “Hard drive searches would tell us if they did,” Mackay observed, checking her wristwatch. “It’s two-thirty. I’ll catch Keefe in chambers. He wants to be a law ’n’ order judge, he’ll issue a search warrant to seize all three priests’ PCs.”

  “What do priests use computers for?” Miller asked, then added, “Besides layin’ down bets.”

  “They post mass schedules, current events, parish news,” Escalante told him. “Shut-ins can go on-line to request and offer prayer.”

  “How ’bout absolution?”

  “Some parishes heard on-line confessions until the Vatican banned it.”

  “Pity. You coulda logged on, asked forgiveness, said a few Hail Marys,” Miller told her.

  “For what?”

  “Locking up the Bishop.”

  “I was just following orders.” Escalante’s v
oice rose an octave.

  “Lighten up, Chiquita, I was joking.”

  Miller fingered an unlit Camel, rolled it between his palms, and blew loose tobacco on Granz’ office floor. “If three priests have gambling addictions, there’s prob’ly more.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Mackay said, turning to her husband. “Why would Davidson give up Duvoir but go to jail to protect Thompson and Benedetti?”

  Granz stared out the window.

  “Dave?”

  “Huh?”

  “I asked why Davidson would testify that one priest had a gambling addiction but go to jail rather than admit there are others.”

  “To avoid acknowledging how widespread it is,” Granz speculated, gnawing his lower lip until he winced in pain. “One gambling addiction’s an illness; two’s a cancer; three—call the Centers for Disease Control, you’ve got an epidemic.”

  “So, he’s buying time to find out how far the disease has spread?”

  “And to cure it on the q.t.”

  “You might be right,” Mackay agreed. “At the hearing, Scalisi told Woods the Diocese hired an investigator. That means they want to get to the problem before the cops do.”

  Miller swiveled his chair back and forth and stopped when it pointed in Escalante’s direction. “If they hired a licensed PI, we could lean on him, but that could take a while.”

  “And he might not know anything yet anyway.”

  Escalante made a note in her spiral-bound, slid a color printout across Granz’ desk, and gave copies to Miller and Mackay.

  “Downloaded off the web,” she explained. “This on-line casino’s run by Cassava Enterprises Limited, an Antigua-Barbuda, West Indies corporation. It looks like an aboveboard gaming operation, but there are dozens more whose web sites don’t say where they’re located.”

  Miller checked the printout. “How’d you get it?”

  “Easy—I typed casino in my laptop’s search engine, and got a couple pages of hits. They all had one thing in common.”

  “What?” Granz asked.

  “They accept VISA and MasterCard wagers.”

  “So?”

  “I have a—an old friend who’s a VISA-MasterCard fraud investigator.”