Patricia Feenan
Words, once published, have a life of their own.
For my devout Catholic parents, Mollie and Jack, who mercifully didn’t ever learn of this terrible story but whose determination and fairness, passed on to their three daughters, enabled me to write about it.
Copyright © 2012 Patricia Feenan
Published by Fontaine Press
P.O. Box 948, Fremantle,
Western Australia 6959
www.fontainepress.com
EPUB Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9873565-5-0
This eBook is also available as a printed book,
please visit www.fontainepress.com/holyhell for details.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. The information, views, and opinions expressed in this publication are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of the publisher. The publisher disclaims any liabilities or responsibilities whatsoever for any damages, libel or liabilities arising directly or indirectly from the contents of this publication.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Foreword
1 The Long Wait for Justice
2 Daniel’s Happy Childhood
3 The Arrival of Father Fletcher to Our Parish
4 The Priest’s Developing Interest in Our Lives
5 Changes in Daniel’s Behaviour and Unexplained Incidents
6 Unwise Decisions and Personality Changes
7 Alcohol Abuse and a Suicide Attempt
8 First Domestic Relationship
9 New Job, New Romance
10 The Disclosure of Abuse and Its Impact on Daniel’s Life
11 The Decision to Approach the Police with Allegations of Abuse
12 The Police Investigation Begins with Further Betrayal from the Church
13 The Anguish of Giving A Police Statement
14 The Arrest of Father James Patrick Fletcher
15 The Legal Preparation for the Trial and a New Victim Emerges
16 Loving Support but Not From the Church
17 The Trial Edges Closer and a Joyous Family Wedding
18 The Trial Commences and Daniel Takes the Witness Stand
19 Cross Examination and Great Courage
20 Prosecution Witnesses and Good Friends
21 The Defence’s Case and We Meet the Other Victim
22 Final Addresses by Prosecution and Defence
23 The Judge Sums up the Case and Instructs the Jury
24 The Long Wait for a Decision by the Jury
25 The Verdict
26 Emotion and Relief
Epilogue. Sentencing and Appeals
Postscript
About the Author
Foreword
How would you react if told by a member of your family they had been sexually abused? Imagine your brother, sister or one of your own children coming to you for help. Then consider what you would do when you learn the perpetrator of those vile acts was one of your closest friends, respected, a person whom you trusted and had taken into the very midst of your family, your Parish Priest. How would you feel? Shocked, betrayed, self-blaming are all appropriate descriptions but most of all hurt, that terrible hurt that originates deep inside, surfacing only to overwhelm you.
Fortunately they are questions most of us will never have to face, we pray not anyway. Patricia Feenan however, did have to face those questions. She was exposed to all those emotions and more. As a good mum she was intent on raising her boys in a loving atmosphere surrounded by her extended and helpful family.
The Catholic Church was a big part of that family. The church wasn’t just something they visited each Sunday; it was an intricate part of how they lived their lives. So when Father James Fletcher brought them into his close circle of friends they felt humbled and honoured, welcoming him as a regular visitor for meals, family celebrations and sharing his confidence. To learn this man violated and destroyed the childhood of Patricia’s eldest son also destroyed her, irreparably damaging her faith in the church.
This book takes you on Patricia Feenan’s personal journey. It is raw, revealing her inner-most emotions and thoughts as she lays open the wounds for you the reader, taking you from the mysterious behavioural changes in her son, the horrifying revelation followed by the police investigation and trial. She also explains the betrayal and abandonment by her beloved church.
The story will shock and confront as it takes you through every parent’s worst nightmare. It is also a story of healing and hope for the future. Patricia Feenan wasn’t just a good mum; she is an extraordinary woman who never gave up the struggle to rescue her family from the terrible abyss of despair created by a paedophile priest.
I suppose it is uncommon for a former detective who investigated the crime to introduce a book on the matter. If sharing her story helps others understand and comprehend the unimaginable then it will have achieved all that Patricia Feenan hoped. For that reason when asked to write this foreword I never hesitated.
Detective Chief Inspector Peter Fox
1
There was a knock on the door of our small room. All eyes swivelled towards the door as the Judge’s Associate entered and said, “the jury will now take a one-hour lunch break.”
It was Monday the 6th of December 2004 and the people – all precious to me – had spent the previous two weeks sitting in East Maitland Courthouse during the Criminal Trial of Catholic priest, James Patrick Fletcher, who had been charged with the sexual abuse of my eldest son, Daniel, now aged twenty-eight years. At the time of the abuse he was just thirteen years old. My son’s three brothers had stood shoulder to shoulder, protecting him, giving him strength and then willed the jury to find the priest guilty as charged.
Now we looked at one another and tried not to let the disappointment show. We had been sitting apprehensively since lunchtime on the previous Thursday when the jury retired to consider its verdict. I told myself that the longer a verdict took to be delivered must surely mean that the jury was really considering the whole picture. For us, the appalled family, close friends and supporters who had shared the most extraordinary emotions through the trial and whose indignation and anger, on learning of Daniel’s trauma, was palpable, it meant another uneasy meal break was looming. Another lunch, more brittle conversation and a strong sense of unreality faced us, but this time it would be different.
At the lunch break the three boys scattered in various directions to seek a respite from this abnormal and painful situation. We made a quick call to Canberra to give an update to Dominic, the anxious son who had returned to work there after spending two weeks with us. A permeating numbness had crept over our family and supporters as the trial and deliberation unfolded.
Throughout the trial, family and friends had provided lunch and we welcomed the normality of eating a sandwich in the green room which had been allocated to our family but which was only five steps from the courtroom itself. We didn’t arrange lunch after the jury retired as we hoped that a decision would be reached quickly and we could leave that building forever. Optimistic or naive?
Five women, including myself, drove down to the local café and tried to buy lunch. The café was busy and we could not order quickly. I asked myself whether the waitresses and cooks sensed our trauma. Surely it was unusual for groups of people to sweep in, order a quick meal, huddle in conversation, consult watches every few minutes and then rush out. I was very uneasy at the delay and kept watching the clock as our hour’s meal break diminished and so asked at 1.40 if we could have our sandwiches wrapped to take w
ith us. As the clock ticked the remainder of the lunchtime away, my friend Margaret rushed to get her truck to transport us back to the courthouse and we piled in clutching our wrapped lunches.
I felt strongly and strangely that something monumental was about to happen. Trust those instincts, Pat; I will never doubt my instincts again. As soon as we returned to our little room, and were about to unwrap our lunches, the sheriff appeared at the door and said that the jury was coming back in to the courtroom. No panic at that stage as this had happened a few times since the jury had retired at 11.00 am the Thursday before. Bernard, my youngest son, who hadn’t left the Courthouse for lunch, rang Daniel and his next eldest brother, Luke, and told them the jury was coming back. He couldn’t reach his father, John. My dear youngest son then put his arm round me and there it stayed as Detective Sergeant Peter Fox, the wonderful police officer who had managed the whole investigation and arrest of the priest, rushed down the hallway saying, “Pat, they have reached a verdict!” Then we panicked as we were missing some of the family, including the victim, my beloved son Daniel. The Crown Prosecutor hurried up the stairs and thankfully Daniel, his partner, Donna, and Luke arrived on the run.
We jostled into the courtroom. I was surrounded by a wall of believers. Supporters of the priest, James Fletcher, gathered as well and took front row seats. I wondered why. I couldn’t speak and surely everyone present could hear my heart thundering. I was visually assaulted by the number of policemen, corrective service and sheriff’s office personnel who then stood ringing the dock and courtroom in contrast to the two uniformed officers who had been present for the trial. I gulped, turned around and smiled at my beautiful eldest son, his partner and his next wonderful brother, Luke. I quickly touched Detective Fox’s hand, and then held tightly to my dear youngest son who was sitting beside me. An old friend held me from the other side. We watched the jury file in and I searched their faces unsuccessfully for some indication of their decision. I realised that I had been waiting for this moment for a very, very long time.
2
Where did this story begin? Where does any story ever begin? Is it at the moment of birth when a lusty cry startles two emotional, triumphant and excited young people into the realisation that they are indeed parents? Or is it later when circumstances converge to change their lives forever?
A life enjoyed before the evilness of paedophilia changed it forever is satisfying to relate.
As a young married couple and indeed through our courtship, John and I had very much enjoyed our times with my elder sister, Christine, and her husband at their farm at Comboyne, a rural and picturesque area west of Taree. The family would gather and share holiday periods and weekends away in the idyllic setting of mountains, rainforest and pretty creeks. Cattle mustering, fencing and creek flats’ cricket were the constants and we all developed as young adults, sharing long talks by the open fire about our childhoods, our hopes for the future and the meaning of life. Work hard, respect others, laugh often and live our Catholic faith always…. that was our mantra.
Having developed such an appreciation for the country life, John and I started to look at our options for the future. By this time, we had two little boys, Daniel and Luke, and we decided that a life in some kind of a rural setting would be good for them, as well as fulfilling our needs for that peace and tranquillity we had experienced with my sister, her husband and their little girls. John’s career as an accountant was established and I worked part time as a teacher. We knew we were not skilled enough to make a viable living from the land.
We realised we could have the best of both worlds if we could find a little rural property close enough to Newcastle so John could commute to work. In late 1978, we were thrilled to be able to purchase twenty-five acres in a little hamlet about forty minutes from Newcastle. What excitement, what dreams we had, as our adventure began. Our friends doubted our sanity as we prepared to leave our lovely home in suburbia and embark on such a different life. They smiled uneasily and wished us well.
Those same friends stayed loyal and became regular visitors to our little country estate where they and their children enjoyed the relaxed lifestyle we had happily adopted. Scarcely a weekend would go by when we didn’t have at least two car loads of friends, bikes, food and pyjamas (in case the day evolved into bath and an evening meal) arrive and unload excited children. Our own excited boys would dance around the visitors’ cars, be kissed by the friends, usually the mothers, and then disappear with their mates to play. We never saw them until they had worked up a thirst and prodigious hunger.
Those children are adults now and when together, relive every cricket match, diving tournament both in the pool and on the football field, mud fight and campout. They all remember the ants’ nest as being a definite highlight on a visit to the farm. It was located on the side of the track. We never, ever did get around to calling it a driveway. What fun could be had, and was had, pelting the nest and watching the ants jump. What delicious danger the boys experienced on that bend in the track! Dominic became a very fast runner and I believe the visits to the ants in his early years were the basis for developing that speed.
In such an environment, the boys had no trouble embracing life, love and laughter. We commented often that among our closest friends, we were overwhelmed with boys. Twenty-two boys to three girls was the tally on one of those special visiting Sundays. With so much backyard cricket played, it is no surprise that all four boys became very good at the game and many of the boys’ weekends, when older, were taken up with morning and afternoon cricket on Saturdays and then representative cricket on Sundays. I could write a book on grass stains and cricket whites and I wish that was the only book that I felt the need to write.
Daniel, as the leader of this wonderful clan of boys, grew into a place where he knew he was loved, respected and successful. In primary school and indeed secondary school, he was a very popular school captain, a clever student and sportsman and was also blessed with remarkable looks. Even his teachers commented on his beautiful face. His brothers received many compliments as well and so I suppose we didn’t even register any reaction when the local priest told us how handsome and angelic our eldest son was. The boys all remember our talks about inner beauty being more important than looks, beauty being in the eye of the beholder, and outer beauty fading. Character was what we were about!
It would be unrealistic to describe our life as perfect but we were very much rewarded by happy kids making happy times. There was rivalry, but about backyard cricket, and a healthy competitive streak in all my sons which caused minor squabbles, better academic results and endless discussions about endless topics. There was teasing too and a lot of hilarity about ripping one another off but no doubt they will all remember the truism that ‘too much laughter ends in tears.’
3
I remember the appointment of Father James Fletcher to the Dungog Parish. We were a practising Catholic family and our faith underpinned our family life. We attended Mass every Sunday and were very interested in the personnel changes within the church structure as they would be pertinent to our family at least. As in any country town, there was a fair amount of talk about him and his ministry. Our family had a slight connection with him as his family had lived next door to my aunt and uncle in the 1940s and had shared a neighbourly friendship.
The priest’s arrival at Christmas 1987 was welcome as the parish had been without a permanent priest for a while and the community, including the school, looked forward to a new order. His first Mass at Clarence Town was set down for Christmas Eve. It was raining and oversubscribed and we felt like sardines as we sat waiting for his debut appearance.
Minutes dragged by and then a good lady from the parish announced that Father had indeed arrived. We all smiled and forgot the discomfort as this was great news. It’s not easy packing four boys aged eleven, ten, seven and three up and off to church on Christmas Eve. I’m sure they had other plans and hopes. Mothers and fathers also would have been considering th
e mountains of organising, cooking and assembling jobs parents do on this special night.
Another ten minutes went by and our good lady appeared again saying Father was indisposed and had suffered a gastric attack. I can tell you that at that moment, the number of people planning a Christmas communion plummeted. Good news soon after. Our friend reappeared and said Father was ready to begin and he had hurriedly commissioned the local school principal as a Minister of the Eucharist and she would be offering communion to the congregation. When Father took centre stage, so to speak, there was light clapping. He acknowledged this with a gracious nod. I’m not sure if he thought it was a welcome clap or realized that people were applauding his very wise decision to try and avoid contaminating his flock.
Father recovered from this inauspicious beginning and began to get to know his parish. Early on he announced from the pulpit that he liked cakes and sweets and was more than happy to accept them from good cooks. A bit of a strange message perhaps but for goodness sake he was the priest and if he liked cakes, then cakes he would have! He began to frequent the homes where he knew he would be made welcome and where there was a fair chance the food would be good. I remember teasing him about whether faith or food came first.
Father Fletcher’s physical appearance reflected his love of cakes and sweets. He was overweight, had a very generous girth and an unhealthy pallor. He was forty-six years old, about five feet nine in height and had grey hair, which was sparse on top and brown eyes, watchful eyes. I didn’t know that was a sinister thing until much later. I just thought he was always aware of the people in a room perhaps because he was slightly nervous when out of his comfort zone.
In hindsight, I know that he was calculating, judge-mental and predatory. I wondered about the solitary tooth in his lower jaw but realised it was by choice, as he certainly could have enjoyed a subsidised visit to a dental prosthetic clinic. Remember, Catholic people looked after their priests. I wondered if he had rotted the other teeth with lollies or now I wonder, with the benefit of that same hindsight, whether there was something more disturbing about that single tooth. His jocular manner was selective and exaggerated when he chose and many people will remember that loud guffawing laugh. I remember that laugh one morning at our home when he laughed so hard at his own smutty interpretation of a comment that he nearly choked.
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