As much to make himself feel better as anything else, Peter walked Luke back to the graduate dorms. He couldn’t really blame Luke. There was a time when Peter would have looked at a man like Feeney with awe, and some people, younger and less versed in the nature of human failing, still did.
When Peter got home from Indiana, he reviewed the materials again. It was circumstantial at best. Even if he were to successfully get records from the college showing Feeney paid for Luke’s business school, it all looked unusual, certainly, but not criminal. That was, he realized, how Owen and people like him had managed to get away with it for so long. They operated in a land of shadowy in-betweens hovering right at the line every time, but only crossing it ever so gently and never long enough to get caught. He decided to call Ted Mercier anyway. Even if Peter couldn’t prove it, maybe Mercier could. Mercier was happy to hear from Peter again and thanked him for passing along any information he thought might be helpful. The worst part about his job, he told Peter, wasn’t what happened to the victims he represented. It was knowing that no matter how much money he might get them, or how many apologies, there would never be any way to get them true justice. Peter knew how he felt and, for the first time, understood what life was like for Ingram in those last few years of trying to right so many wrongs.
He typed up a summary of what he’d discovered, along with a timeline. He recommended that Mercier look into the tuition payments to Notre Dame as a means to get some leverage over Feeney. Maybe if he felt caught out, he’d offer up someone else. These guys always did. It was a twisted kind of code they seemed to follow, and when it worked, there was no way to beat it. But when it broke, it cracked completely, falling immediately into disrepair and taking anyone around down with it. He stuck the summary and copies of the letters in the mailbox at the post office in Tarrytown and walked back home. A card from Ally Larkin was waiting for him. She wanted to thank him for giving her a recommendation. She’d been offered a job with a community center in Waterbury, not far from where Peter grew up, and so far she loved it. “It’s going to be okay, isn’t it?” she asked at the end of her note. Peter hoped it would be. A few days later, he waited at the bottom of the stairs as Emma came down with her suitcase. The taxi would be there any minute. Halfway out the door, he reached into his pocket and took out his phone. He wasn’t going to bring it with him. This time was for him and Emma.
CHAPTER 18
Ted Mercier was more than willing to continue the crusade in Peter’s absence. He’d been instantly skeptical every time he received something he had requested from Owen Feeney’s office. In fact, he felt that way about most paperwork furnished by Church representatives on the rare occasions he received them without an extended battle. The materials always seemed entirely too benign. It was impossible to believe that, with the voluminous number of cases reported and suits filed across the United States, not once had Feeney ever mentioned anything about these cases in correspondence, electronic or otherwise. But yet, like so many of the records he’d requested from the Church—at the local level and even as far as Rome—responses were excessively slow in coming, and when they finally did, the information provided was impossibly clean. He was willing to acknowledge that someone as clever as Feeney knew better than to discuss sensitive information via e-mail, but he also knew that others did not, and there was a good chance Owen had received e-mails referring to cases and correspondence that Mercier could use to establish prior knowledge of inappropriate conduct. And if he could establish that someone at Owen’s level knew, he hoped to use it to follow the trail back to Rome. It wasn’t enough to lay the blame at the American Church’s door. He wanted someone at the Vatican to take responsibility. He hoped to set up a circle of complicity. Lean on the Vatican to give him Owen, then get Owen to retaliate by giving him someone higher up, maybe even at the Vatican.
Mercier did not possess the manpower of a top-shelf law firm, but his instincts about what to look for were good. In the case of Feeney’s reply to the subpoena, he’d known what to keep an eye out for. Even the slightest mention of another case or a date could help. He just didn’t know where to look in the absence of fuller access to the Church’s personnel records. He had filed the request for Owen’s e-mails with an eye to scanning them for mistakes made by others. It was a crapshoot, really, an effort to cast a wider net with the hopes it might catch something marginally helpful. But with Peter’s new information, Mercier now felt confident that he would find something. There were limits to how he could use the letters Peter found at Ingram’s office as direct evidence, but at least now he knew specifics to ask about. In his time working on the William Hartnett case, this much was clear: Owen Feeney was not a man who did anything by accident. If he’d taken the time to manipulate an intern into doing his bidding, it was because he knew there was damaging information out there, and he knew he could intimidate Luke.
Of course, Feeney wasn’t concerned in the slightest when Mercier contacted him. And given how effective the Church had proved at stalling any number of his previous requests, Feeney had good reason not to be. At the mention of Peter Merrick’s name, Feeney smoothly dropped his voice to hushed, concerned tones. James Ingram’s death had been hard on everyone, he explained to Mercier. But it had seemed to hit Peter Merrick particularly hard. “He is, Mr. Mercier, very clearly suffering from some sort of trauma from his time overseas. That much is clear, and while I wish to help him and be supportive in any way I can, I’m afraid I can’t be held responsible for what his broken mind fabricates.”
Mercier listened to the explanation patiently. He was aware of Peter’s background and had even read a number of the articles he filed from abroad. But if Peter’s enthusiasm for implicating Feeney went beyond what some would consider normal, it still seemed reasonably motivated by rage at the Church’s obfuscation. And as far as Mercier could tell, any emotional problems Peter might be grappling with hadn’t affected his investigative abilities.
“Be that as it may,” he said, interrupting Feeney’s character assassination, “I’m afraid my conversation with a Mr. Luke Rutkowski compels me to request access to your IT staff.” The name caught Feeney by surprise, but he recovered. “Mr. Mercier,” he began, “I’ve tried to be as cooperative with you as possible, but I’m sure you understand that these requests are really wearing on the goodwill of this office and its staff.”
“Look, Mr. Feeney—”
“That’s Bishop Feeney, Mr. Mercier. Your Excellency, to be even more accurate. But definitely not Mister.”
“Mister or not, I’m still going to file a motion to have independent experts examine your servers unless you’re willing to give me permission.”
“And why would I do that?” Feeney huffed.
“To spare yourself and your bosses more embarrassment when I have to drag them into this.”
Mercier heard the squeak of a chair as Feeney shifted in his seat.
“You’re not going to find them any more cooperative, Mr. Mercier. It’ll be a waste of your time.”
Mercier shrugged. “Maybe not, but I’m sure going to enjoy being the cause of their inconvenience.” After he hung up the phone, he looked at the rest of the materials Peter sent him—including copies of the files Ally Larkin had given Peter the morning before the Wyncott campaign scandal broke. Feeney didn’t know he had it, which meant there was a good chance his bosses didn’t know either. Mercier wasn’t above leaking photocopies of the correspondence between Feeney and Milton Casey. It wasn’t a strong story, but it would still create more negative publicity the Church didn’t need. So far, the Church had managed to stonewall him with a united front. It was time to pit its leaders against one another and see whether preservation of the Church or preservation of self won out. He looked at his watch and calculated the time difference in Rome. Then he wandered down the hallway to make some coffee. It was going to be a long night.
*
Several days later Ted Mercier arrived at the offices of the United States Confere
nce of Catholic Bishops to arrange deposing members of the IT department. Feeney strenuously objected to traveling to a neutral site. He assembled his legal team and a few external attorneys, who greeted Mercier like soccer players during a penalty kick—a grim wall of antagonism and dislike. Feeney explained that he wouldn’t be making any of the IT staff available even for informational discussions until both sides had met and laid some ground rules.
“Fine with me,” Mercier agreed. He wasn’t sure he was going to need them anyway.
Feeney took control of the meeting, quieting the murmur of conversation with a pious lowering of the hand. He was accustomed to being obeyed.
“Now, then, Mr. Mercier, perhaps you could describe for us the scope of what it is you wish to discuss with our staff today.”
Ted pushed a piece of paper across the table. “It’s all here in the initial request.” He pushed a second piece across. “And it’s reiterated here, in the second request.”
He was flipping through his pile to pull out the third request when one of the attorneys spoke up. “We get the point, Mr. Mercier.”
Ted nodded. “We’re requesting all formal correspondence related to Owen Feeney’s involvement with the clerical career of Father William Hartnett, particularly between the years of 1982 and 2002.”
“Mr. Mercier, my assignment to the Conference doesn’t cover that entire period.”
“I understand that, sir, but your affiliation with William Hartnett, from what we can tell, does. To the extent that you have any documentation related to this that was created or sent during your time with the Conference, we’re requesting access to review it. We’d also like to speak with your IT staff about the electronic files and your servers.”
Feeney leaned back in his chair. “From what you can tell? And just what do you think you can tell, Mr. Mercier?”
Mercier glanced sideways to the Conference’s general counsel, Charles Miller. “It’s all in the materials we’ve submitted to Mr. Miller. According to interviews with staff at various of Hartnett’s parishes, you recommended Hartnett and sent letters of introduction on his behalf on at least two occasions of his relocation.”
Feeney smiled. “I don’t recall seeing any of these letters in the materials you’ve provided us, Mr. Mercier.” He leaned forward to look at the papers in front of Mercier. “Do you mind?”
Mercier pulled the papers out of Feeney’s reach. “The letters were not included in those materials.”
“I see. And why not?”
“Parish staff were unable to locate them.”
Feeney smirked. “Unable to locate them,” he repeated. “That’s unfortunate, Mr. Mercier. But I’m afraid I don’t understand what you hope to gain today. Clearly you have no evidence that these letters actually exist, and I’ve already provided you with all we have that complies with your request.” He rose from the table and smoothed the folds of his simar. “I think we’re just about done here.” Around him, his Conference colleagues rose in unison as though attending Mass.
Mercier remained seated. Glaring up at Feeney, he nodded his head. “See, that’s the funny thing. Documents have a way of disappearing anytime you’re around, Mr. Feeney.” He deliberately punctuated “Mister.” “So the reason I’m here is to make sure that’s just a coincidence. Because according to Luke Rutkowski, there used to be a lot more e-mails floating around about making problems—past and present—go away.”
As before, Owen Feeney lost composure, if only momentarily, at the mention of Luke Rutkowski. “Mr. Rutkowski was an intern in this office, Mr. Mercier,” he said with contempt. “I highly doubt he can have any authority on how an organization of this size and prominence runs itself. You can hardly expect his explanation to be thorough enough to pursue this.”
“Then why did you pay for his education in exchange for his assistance scrubbing the e-mail servers?”
Feeney scowled. “I did not pay for his education in exchange for anything,” he hissed. “I did my Christian duty to assist a worthy individual in need through perfectly reasonable means.”
He sat back down in his chair, waiting for the moral superiority to silence Mercier.
Mercier turned to the Conference’s lawyers. “And he’s legally authorized to spend money that way here?”
“I don’t need their permission.” Feeney seethed, leaning across the table to shout in Mercier’s face. “I’m the head of this organization. The only permission I need is from Rome, Mr. Mercier, and I get it anytime I need it. Anytime I want it. And I certainly don’t require approval from you or anyone else in this room. What I want and what the Church wants are one and the same. What I do and what the Church does are one and the same. Are we clear on this?”
“Then show me the records.”
“I’ll show you what I’m told to show you when I’m told to, not when you demand it.”
“Then I’ll just have to contact your superiors directly.”
Feeney blinked at him. “Be my guest. You won’t find them any more cooperative. When I speak, Mr. Mercier, it is on behalf of the Church.”
Mercier silently shoved a piece of paper across the table to Feeney. His assistant simultaneously passed copies to the other people at the table. It was a copy of the proposal Owen had created for Milton Casey on Conference letterhead. Feeney’s eyes flickered with recognition. Before he could speak, Mercier slid another set of papers across the table—copies of Feeney’s letters about William Hartnett from Ingram’s files. Owen hadn’t yet grabbed it when Mercier aggressively shoved his last piece of paper across the table. It was a formal letter from the office of the prefect for the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. It denied any knowledge of Feeney’s proposal or involvement with Milton Casey and the Wyncott campaign. It repeated that Feeney had acted entirely on his own in this matter without permission from his superiors. As such, they likewise thanked him for bringing to their attention that Feeney may also have used Church funds for an unsanctioned purpose. The letter closed by approving his request for financial records related to Bishop Owen Feeney’s management of the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops and granting him permission to review all requested materials.
“Apparently, not anymore,” Mercier said quietly, but firmly.
Feeney looked suddenly pale. “There must be some sort of misunderstanding,” he said. “They wouldn’t grant permission. They wouldn’t want this.”
“What they wouldn’t want,” Mercier said, “is another scandal related to the election. I know. I spoke with them.”
Feeney looked around the room at the attorneys. “Can you please excuse us for a moment?” he asked. His voice was calm. If he was nervous, he showed no sign. The others shuffled toward the exit. Feeney looked to Mercier’s assistant. Mercier nodded for him to leave as well.
When the room was cleared, Feeney sat back down.
“What do you mean you spoke with them?”
Mercier pushed his chair back. “Come on, Owen,” he said sharply. “These guys are selling you down the river. They’re pinning the Wyncott mess on you and backing it up by making sure you go down for misuse of funds. They’re painting you as the lone gunman. But it doesn’t have to be this way. It doesn’t have to be you who takes the fall.”
Feeney shook his head. “No. You have it wrong.”
Mercier pulled his chair closer to Feeney. “I don’t. Give me the records. Give me the evidence I need to find them responsible. To nail who told you to sweep it under the rug and who authorized you to protect Hartnett by moving him around. I’ll say you were following orders. But I need someone bigger than you, Owen. It has to be someone at the Vatican. Give me who ordered you to cover for Hartnett and any others. Let me help you.”
But Feeney wasn’t listening. He’d begun wringing his hands. “You’re wrong. They wouldn’t do this. Not to me.”
Mercier reached over and tapped his finger on the prefect’s letter.
“They already did, Owen.”
He moved
back to his papers and gathered them up. “Just think about it. I can help you.”
Feeney stared with his mouth open, unable to speak. After a few moments of silence, Mercier walked out of the room. Feeney remained at the table, completely and utterly alone.
*
Thousands of miles away in his room at a cozy bed-and-breakfast in Kinsale, Ireland, Peter Merrick would see it on the news. He would hear about how the head of the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, Owen Feeney, had been implicated in Wyncott’s tort-reform scandal and was now being investigated by authorities for misuse of funds. In the papers he would read that according to investigators, records showed Feeney had made a number of personal transactions using Conference funds for a range of unauthorized activities, including payment for a former intern’s education. A portion of these funds came from a federal grant from the Department of Agriculture, elevating the crime. The more salacious news outlets had hinted at an improper relationship between the bishop and the intern. Such irresponsible journalism disgusted Peter. Feeney had resigned immediately, and the Conference had issued a statement saying it would no longer tolerate abuse of Church authority and cover-ups of any kind.
It was, they said, a new dawn for Catholicism in America. Just a few weeks later, in November of that year, Thomas Archer echoed those same sentiments in a speech following his election as the next president of the United States—only the second Catholic president in its history.
CHAPTER 19
Weeks later, Owen Feeney stood before a judge, preparing to sign a waiver of indictment and plead guilty to misappropriating part of a $500,000 grant awarded to the Conference, in exchange for a reduced sentence: three years at a minimum-security prison with eligibility for parole after fourteen months. It was a small comfort to Kevin Garrity and others like him—so little to pay for his role in so much destruction. But for someone like Feeney, it wasn’t bars or a cell that would break him. It would be the loss of control and the inability to command respect by the nature of his title, instead of what kind of man he was. Peter sat in the back of the courtroom on the prosecution’s side, watching as Feeney croaked “Guilty” and nodded at the sentence pronounced by the judge. It was not lost on him that Owen’s side of the courtroom was bare. No priests, no nuns, no devoted protégés sat hanging on his every word. The gravitas he had always projected was gone. So also was the stately purple-edged simar Peter associated with him. Without it, he seemed small and inconsequential. Not at all the criminal mastermind Peter had built him up in his mind to be, but a diminutive, frail, and achingly human figure. He shuffled out of the courtroom as he entered it—alone but for the court officers acting as his escorts. The church he had sacrificed so much for hadn’t returned the favor when his time of need came.
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