by John Ayang
“This is getting interesting,” Judge Montgomery said and sat back, again, like a wise professor gauging the wit and wisdom of two impertinent students sparring to prove their intellectual superiority over each other. “Mr. Turner, let’s hear you demonstrate the irrelevance of this analogy.”
“That every entity or corporation has the right to establish and implement its set of rules and regulations and to sanction its members in case of dereliction is not on trial here, Your Honor.” Patrick Turner rose to the challenge, too. “But that such a corporation, through its agent, has shown gross partiality and discrimination in applying such rules and penalties or sanctions…THAT is what is on trial. My client was singled out and subjected to public humiliation bearing on a case for which another defaulter has not been appropriately and equally sanctioned. It is a case of discrimination and, perhaps, racial oppression. That is what I am prosecuting, Your Honor, I pray the court that this case be brought to trial.”
Stacy’s hand was up in the air. Judge Montgomery also raised her hand, motioning Stacy to hold her peace. She jotted down some notes on her pad, looked up at Patrick Turner, and inquired, “Again, Mr. Turner, for the record, you seriously insist that you intend to prove a case of discrimination?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Patrick Turner replied.
“You also bring in the ‘race card’, alleging racial oppression.”
Stacy squirmed in her seat, but held her peace as Judge Montgomery held out her hand again to stop her from interrupting.
“Mr. Turner, I realize that your client is Black,” Judge Montgomery continued. “And as is quite obvious, I am also Black.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” he replied, bobbing his head back and forth in emphasis.
“And so, you realize that brining in the race factor takes the case a notch higher and more serious?”
“I am perfectly aware of that, Your Honor,” he assured her. “And I intend to prove my case accordingly.”
“Ms. Donovan, do you have anything more to say?” Judge Montgomery asked, looking prim again.
“Your Honor, I do not see why this case has to go to trial based purely on speculation about a discrimination that has not been substantiated.”
“That will be substantiated, Ms. Donovan,” Patrick Turner addressed her directly.
“If you have evidence of the alleged discrimination why not produce it?” Stacy sparred angrily. “You know you are required to make such evidence available to me for examination and proper preparation of the defense of my client.”
“I know all that, Ms. Donovan,” he said. “The evidence in this case is a person, whom I will produce. You will have all the freedom to examine that person and make your defense at that time.”
“I think both of you are done,” Judge Montgomery said. “In the absence of any further facts to present, I will move the case to trial.”
“But, Your Honor…” Stacy began, but was interrupted by the judge.
“Both of you will receive notification of the date of trial by mail. By the way, Miss Donovan, Prosecution is usually not bound to share evidence when a trial is not yet fixed. Once you get your trial date, you can negotiate the sharing of evidence. For now, this preliminary hearing is adjourned,” the judge stated as she banged the gavel, got up, and walked into her chambers.
Stacy was really piqued at the outcome of the preliminary hearing. She felt she did not get a fair adjudication from the judge. She stood there for a couple of minutes, perplexed at the turn of events. Then she gathered her papers into her briefcase, zipped it, and stalked out petulantly. At the door, Patrick Turner gave her a mock compliment.
“That was quite an impressive analogy, Ms. Donovan.”
“Thank you, Mr. Turner,” Stacy responded, primly. “Forgive me if I can’t say the same for your performance, though.”
“Ah, I’m not much for the show, that’s understandable,” he countered, acridly.
“You certainly thirst for blood when you smell money, don’t you?” Stacy asked, almost hissing, her face a mere six inches from his face. Then she stalked out with an air of arrogance before he could think of a rebuttal.
“Women!” Patrick Turner muttered under his breath, smiling wryly. “They can never lose with grace.” Tucking his briefcase under his arm, he walked out to his car.
Later that morning, Stacy drove straight from the court to Our Lady of Peace Catholic Church. She was just four blocks away from the Church when a police car parked by the curb flashed its red, blue, and orange lights. Startled, she instinctively switched her foot from the gas to the brake pedal. She looked at her speedometer and realized she was doing almost fifty miles on a thirty-five-mile-an-hour suburb road. Her heart missed a beat and pounded furiously against her chest. There was only one stoplight before she turned left onto the side street where the rectory of Our Lady of Peace Church stood. As she approached, the light turned yellow. Under normal circumstances, she could have made it across before it turned red, but she decided against the impulse and slowed her BMW convertible to a stop. A glance in her side mirror showed that the police car was still at the spot where it was. Whoever was behind the wheel did not appear to be interested in following her. She thought the flash was a warning, yet she was unsure if it was for her or another driver. Whoever it was for, she was greatly relieved that she didn’t get a ticket, which would have exacerbated the bad taste she had from her encounter with Patrick Turner in Judge Montgomery’s courtroom earlier that morning. After what she considered a major defeat—failing to persuade the judge to throw out the case and not move it to trial—she wasn’t ready to encounter any superior airs from a cop. It would have been much worse if the cop recognized her as an attorney breaking traffic regulations. She resolved to just go and break the bad news to Father McCarthy and then head back to her office at the Chancery to attend to regular office matters. Maybe that would soothe her mood. She wondered why she decided to drive to the rectory instead of breaking the news to him on the phone and leaving it at that.
The light turned green and Stacy had no time to answer her own question, nor was she interested in manufacturing an answer. She was still too piqued at the morning-gone-wrong to dwell on a Q-and-A game. Turning left onto Lamar Street, she drove for ten minutes and turned left again into the driveway of Our Lady of Peace rectory. The driveway was curved for easy entrance and exit, a clever use of the twenty by thirty feet of space between the rectory and the street. Being a perfect bow, it could take up to six cars parked along the curb, something that would be impossible to pull off with a straight driveway perpendicular to the rectory and the street. The rectory seemed to have been designed by someone with foresight and good planning. The main entrance was on the opposite side, facing the rectory, separated by a large parking lot. The side facing Lamar Street could also serve as a main entrance, though it was rarely used except by private visitors. Stacy pulled up and parked directly in front of the rectory, parallel to the three concrete steps leading up to a lightly ornate door. The rectory and the church building, by their architectural design, both appeared to have been erected in the early 1950s. She made a mental note to ask Father McCarthy when it was built.
“Good morning, Miss Donovan,” a voice called out from the doorway, startling Stacy, who was busy pressing and holding the button that was bringing out the roof and glass windows of her convertible into place. She did not want to take chances with Houston weather. It could rain at the drop of a hat.
“Good morning, Father,” Stacy called in response. She had not heard the door open, but Father McCarthy was standing there holding it. Dressed in his clericals—a Spanish-style black jumper over black dress pants and black shoes—with a crew-cut hairstyle neatly trimmed at the sides and around the back, and combed into a nice clump over his forehead, Father McCarthy looked quite handsome. She felt a slight flutter in her stomach, but quickly composed herself and asked, half teasing and half surprised at his quick
appearance, “Do you always stay by your door, or were you expecting me?”
“No. Why?” Father McCarthy asked, then added, “I stay inside the house. In fact, I was upstairs.”
“Well, then, you must be quicksilver, Achilles, or some sort of lightning, to move that fast from upstairs. I wasn’t even out of the car yet when you opened the door.”
“Oh, I just happened to look through the window and spotted your car wheeling into my driveway,” Father McCarthy said. “I like your ride,” he concluded, giving Stacy’s convertible an appraiser’s eyeing-over.
“Oh, thank you,” Stacy demurred, hanging her handbag over the crook of her left arm and stretching her suit skirt, which was slightly tight, accentuating her hip and back curves.
“Graduation gift from my dad. It’s almost ten years old. It gets me where I need to go, though,” she added, chuckling.
“A priority function well fulfilled,” Father McCarthy concurred. “Come inside, please, and tell me that everything is going well so far.”
“The news is not good, Father,” Stacy said somberly. “Judge Montgomery insisted on moving the case to trial.”
“Move the case to trial?!” Father McCarthy said, almost yelling. “Goodness, gracious! It’s not worth the trouble! Since when did the court sink to that level of wallowing in frivolities?” he asked rhetorically, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. He started pacing, visibly agitated.
“I’m terribly sorry.” Stacy was all apologies. “Once Patrick Turner insisted that he could prove a case of discrimination, I couldn’t persuade her to throw out the case or even to let it be settled out of court.”
“Discrimination, my foot,” Father McCarthy said, visibly livid. “Is it because the Eshiets are Black? I could equally stop any White folk from Communion if they committed the same moral scandal of using IVF as a method of conception, which the Church expressly prohibits. I guess no one would cry ‘discrimination’! Since the anti-discrimination laws, everyone has to walk on eggshells where minorities are concerned.”
“Well, Father,” Stacy said. “I know it’s hard, but I don’t think you really had to walk on eggshells. Besides, I don’t think their argument alleging discrimination will be premised on race, although there is no telling how far Patrick would go to prove his case.”
“What if they drop it like a bomb at the trial?” Father McCarthy asked.
“That would be to your advantage, Father,” Stacy replied confidently.
“What do you mean?” Father McCarthy asked. He stopped pacing to look at Stacy.
“That would give us the grounds to ask Judge Montgomery to recuse herself from the case,” Stacy said, slipping into a conspiratorial mood. “And the only other judge whom I know the case would go to is Judge Mendes. Victoria Mendes.”
“Why would she recuse herself?” Father McCarthy asked, confused.
“She’s Black,” Stacy said.
“Oh, I see,” Father McCarthy said, looking every bit like a person who had, in fact, seen where this case was heading. “So, I am accused of discrimination by a Black couple, and I am to be prosecuted before a Black judge.”
“Wait a minute, Father,” Stacy said, raising a hand to calm Father McCarthy. “I think you are taking me out of context. I am not saying that Judge Montgomery would not be fair, or that she is incapable of giving a fair judgment in a case of racial discrimination, even where the plaintiff is Black.”
“So, what are you saying?” Father McCarthy inquired.
“All I am saying is that I would capitalize on the scenario to pressure her to recuse herself from the case. That would give me another chance to try to persuade the next judge to either throw out the case or, worse, order an out-of-court settlement.”
“Okay, I see where you are going,” Father McCarthy conceded, then countered, “What if she refuses to recuse herself?”
“Then we will have no option but to slug it out in the legal ring,” Stacy said, again using that confidential tone which Father McCarthy was beginning to like. He thought Stacy exuded confidence and was smart enough to handle Turner & Stendhal.
“Well, that still doesn’t make me feel any better,” Father McCarthy said, doggedly. “Knowing that both my opponent and my judge are Black doesn’t make me very confident in the justice system.”
“Father, do me a favor, please,” Stacy said, softly. “Can you drop the ‘Black’ thing for once and relax? It’s not going to be what you think, I can assure you. And, by the way,” she added. “I’m kind of Black, too.”
“What do you mean?” Father McCarthy asked, creasing his forehead with incredulity.
“I’m half Black,” Stacy said.
“What do you mean, ‘half Black’?” Father McCarthy pursued, still incredulous.
“Well, one-quarter Black, if you like,” Stacy corrected herself.
“Yeah, keep going,” Father McCarthy urged, almost mockingly.
“That’s where it ends.” Stacy chuckled and said, “Father, don’t look at me as if I’m nuts. Seriously, I consider myself one-quarter Black. My father is mulatto. He’s the one who’s half Black. His mother was Black and his father was Irish. I’m a carbon copy of my mom, who’s Swede. You haven’t met my mom. When you do, you’ll see what I mean.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee or a glass of wine?” Fr. McCarthy asked suddenly. “And, please, sit down.” He pointed her to a chair by the breakfast table.”
“Whoa!” Stacy exclaimed. “Nice to see you getting back to normal and becoming civil and hospitable.”
“I apologize. I got carried away,” Father McCarthy said.
“First time coming into your house, you offer me no seat, and we’ve been talking for almost fifteen minutes, trying to calm you down,” Stacy said, sounding relieved. “Good to see you’re recovering yourself.”
“I apologize,” Father McCarthy said again. “I guess getting the bad news that the case is set for trial, and knowing my accuser, the judge, and my lawyer are all Black, is enough to make me forget my manners. So, if you don’t mind, let me be honest: I am offering you a seat and coffee or wine because I am desperately trying to keep, at least, one Black person on my side.” Fr. McCarthy had found his sense of humor.
“I thought bribery was a mortal sin…?” Stacy began to say.
“… which kills the life of God in the soul. Yeah, I know,” Fr. McCarthy finished her sentence for her, chuckling wryly.
Stacy broke into uncontrollable laughter. She laughed so hard, her whole body was rocking. She rolled from side to side. Her laughter was so full of mirth and gaiety, it became contagious. Soon Father McCarthy was rocking in laughter, too.
“You need to go to confession, Father,” she said in mock chiding, barely able to contain her guffaw. “But first, let me have my coffee. A lot of desk work is waiting for me at the office, so, I need something to keep me awake.”
“Alright, coffee coming,” Fr. McCarthy said, almost announcing it. He crossed the room and poured two cups of coffee—one for Stacy and one for himself, then called, “sugar?”
“Yes, please,” Stacy responded.
“Cream?” he called again.
“Just a little drop,” Stacy said.
“Oh, I thought women liked a lot of cream in their coffee,” Fr. McCarthy teased.
“No, I only like a little cream in my coffee, not the other way around,” Stacy said as Fr. McCarthy set her cup in front of her. “That’s one of the bad habits I inherited from my dad. My mom drinks coffee, too, and my siblings. Matter of fact, it’s a family thing. We are a clan of coffee guzzlers.”
“As far as I know, I’m the only one in my family who drinks coffee,” Fr. McCarthy said. “The rest of the family follows the tea-drinking tradition of the English. Don’t ask me where and when they picked up the habit because I don’t know, and we’re not even English.”
Fr. McCarthy and Stacy settled down to their coffee with occasional small talk in between gulps. Eventually, Stacy glanced at her watch and decided it was time to get back to the Chancery office. She thanked Fr. McCarthy for the good brew, hung her handbag on the crook of her left hand, and stretched out the right for a handshake. Fr. McCarthy took it and pumped it briefly, praying her again to do her best for him and for the Church. Stacy assured him again and turned to leave, but noticed a pouch-covered Wilson racket leaning against the corner of the wall, with a can of tennis balls beside it.
“Do you play tennis?” She asked, looking excited.
“Yes, Ma’am, I do,” Fr. McCarthy responded and asked, “Do you?”
“I’m a big fan of tennis, and I play when I have time,” she responded, still excited.
“Well, then,” Fr. McCarthy said. “Maybe you could join us tomorrow at St. Mary’s Seminary. Fr. Polanski and I are playing on the Seminary court. Greg, my parish council chairman, is coming, too. We could play doubles, since you will make a fourth person.” He was becoming excited.
“Yeah, I would love to,” Stacy said. “What time?”
“Four,” he responded.
“Mm! Four is a bit early for me,” Stacy said. “That’s the time I usually leave the office, but I will see what I can do.”
“We can start late,” Fr. McCarthy offered, graciously.
“Well, the doubles won’t be until I arrive,” Stacy pointed out. “But you can start playing without me.”
“That’s right,” he concurred. “But we’ll be expecting you.”
“I’ll be there,” Stacy confirmed. “A bit tardy, though.” She stretched out her hand again for a shake.
The following day, at three forty-five in the afternoon, Fr. McCarthy nosed his car onto Memorial Drive, heading for St. Mary’s Seminary. Fr. Polanski sat beside him, chewing a wad of gum. They drove in silence for most of the way. Both were in their tennis gear: white polo shirts, white shorts, and white Nike tennis shoes. Fr. McCarthy wore a blue band around his head and another on his left wrist, like a pro. Fr. Polanski wore a white cap that bore his alma mater insignia of Notre Dame University, in South Bend, Indiana. He had grown tired and stopped explaining to his critics that the reason why he wasn’t a football nut, but preferred tennis, even when he was still at Notre Dame, was precisely because he wasn’t a Mick, but a Polack. Nobody could tell whether he always said that in jest or was serious about it. But Fr. Polanski was one person who didn’t care about making jokes or using derogatory terms at his own expense. Some say it was subterfuge, a kind of defense mechanism against his critics. Since he himself was a veritable social critic, he would first criticize himself or apply to himself any racially motivated insults current in popular talk. That way his critics were robbed of anything to say to hurt his feelings, if they got upset with him. Always referring to himself as a Polack was probably, also, a play on his name.