“They’ve bent the rules to avoid embarrassment to the archdiocese and to yourself.”
“That isn’t true, Michael.”
“Are you aware that Father Quinn testified that he has complete authority to settle major cases on behalf of the archdiocese without first getting your approval?”
“He was attempting to protect me. In fact, he does have the authority to settle major matters without my approval.” He clears his throat and says, “And if you are serious about calling me as a witness tomorrow, I’m prepared to testify that the buck stops with me.”
He’s good. “I appreciate your willingness to discuss that subject, but there are some other issues that may not be quite so easy to dispose of.”
“What issues?”
“Your general counsel and your chief outside counsel admitted in open court today that they maintain a slush fund to dispose of litigation matters involving the archdiocese.”
“I’m well-aware of that sub-account, Michael, and it’s hardly a slush fund. There is nothing illegal about it and we have nothing to hide.”
“Did you know Father Quinn moved five million dollars into the trust account at Mr. Shanahan’s law firm?”
“I found out about it earlier today. I am disturbed by the magnitude of the amount, but I knew we were attempting to settle some difficult matters. There is nothing wrong with defending the Church against unfounded charges.”
“And you had no problem spying on Father O’Connell and his attorney?”
“It isn’t an ideal situation, but it’s an accepted strategy in the litigation process. We trust Mr. Shanahan to solve our legal problems.”
“You still believe Father O’Connell was innocent?”
“Yes.”
“You realize the media will view this as the equivalent of having withdrawn five million dollars of unmarked bills?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time the media has misconstrued the evidence.”
Quinn steps forward and tries to protect his boss. “Michael,” he says, “I’m not sure why you’re so intent on lambasting us for attempting to settle a difficult case and for conducting some legitimate financial transfers. If that’s all you have, we’ll call it a night and see you in court in the morning.”
I can’t back down now. “I think you were more concerned about the O’Connell case than you’ve admitted. That’s why you authorized a five-million-dollar transfer to the trust account at Shanahan, Gallagher and O’Rourke.”
“That’s nonsense, Michael. We had several cases in settlement negotiations and we wanted to have enough funds on hand to resolve all of them.”
“Why did you need a cashier’s check?”
“We wanted readily available funds.”
“Ms. Concepcion wouldn’t accept a check written on the account of the archdiocese?”
“Ms. Concepcion was not acting rationally. She erroneously believed we had reneged on a settlement of an earlier case and was insisting on a cashier’s check.”
“Perhaps you had the money issued in the form of a cashier’s check to make the funds more difficult to trace,” I say.
“Obviously, that ploy didn’t work. I think we’re done.”
No, we aren’t. “I believe Ms. Concepcion rejected Mr. Peterson’s offer when they spoke at nine-fifteen last Monday.” I look at Shanahan and Quinn in turn and say, “He reported on his discussion to both of you, and you discussed it with each other.” I turn to Peterson and say, “That’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Quinn says, “He was just doing his job. We’re the attorneys for the archdiocese.”
“Then you called her again at nine-forty-five and told her you were going to make one last offer to settle–I don’t know what the amount was, but I’d guess maybe a million bucks. She turned you down flat and that was supposed to be the end of it.”
“That was the end of it,” Quinn insists.
“If I were a betting man, I’d guess that you talked to each other again after Ms. Concepcion rejected your offer, didn’t you?”
Quinn doesn’t deny it. “I called John to inform him that he needed to get ready for trial.”
Shanahan doesn’t say anything.
“You talked about more than that, didn’t you?” I say. “You guys must have spent a few minutes strategizing.”
“We did.”
“And you even talked about what it might take to settle the case, didn’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And like all good lawyers, you discussed the upper and lower limits on what might be a suitable resolution for this case, didn’t you?”
“That’s what good lawyers, do, Michael.”
It’s true. Here goes. “And you decided to approach Ms. Concepcion with one final offer–one magnanimous gesture to try to avoid protracted litigation and severe embarrassment to the archdiocese–something you were going to have trouble explaining to the archbishop.”
Quinn shakes his head violently and says, “No, Michael.”
“Coincidentally, you happened to have a five-million-dollar cashier’s check sitting around just waiting to be handed over to Ms. Concepcion to make all of your problems go away once and for all. You’d already discussed the limits on what you were willing to pay to make this case disappear. It was a five-million-dollar insurance policy. You knew you could sell it to Archbishop Keane–you’ve always done so in the past and you would have looked like heroes on the eve of trial.”
“No, Michael.”
I didn’t expect him to budge. I point at Shanahan and say, “You went over to Ms. Concepcion’s apartment at a quarter to one to make your final offer. You parked in the alley behind her apartment and went inside to talk to her, and she was still very much alive at the time. You offered her the five million dollars. It was the ultimate win-win-win situation–you were going to settle a contentious and potentially devastating case, Ms. Concepcion would get a bundle of dough for her client and the archdiocese would avoid the public humiliation of having a renegade priest’s record held up for public inspection.”
“That’s preposterous,” Shanahan says. He picks up his briefcase and adds, “And utterly insulting.”
I’m not finished. “Everything went wrong because you overestimated your ability to persuade her to settle and you underestimated her principles. Unlike most lawyers you’ve faced, you couldn’t buy her off. She turned you down and sent you packing.”
“You’re crazy.”
“You had a high-profile case you couldn’t win. You knew the archbishop would be unhappy–perhaps so unhappy that he would have sent his business to another firm. You knew your cozy little financial arrangement with the archdiocese would become a matter of public record–everybody would know that you and Father Quinn had set up a system to pay off witnesses and buy off plaintiffs. Who knows how many other people you’d bought off–or tried to. You had a situation that was spinning out of control, and you couldn’t let that happen, so you had to go to Plan B. You took matters into your own hands and you knocked her unconscious. You knew very well she had been experiencing emotional problems and you tried to make it look like a suicide by putting her into the bathtub and slitting her wrists. You even went to the trouble of putting skin cream all over her body. It wasn’t a bad plan–especially if you were making it up on the fly. If my guess is correct, you were probably wearing gloves to avoid leaving any fingerprints.”
“You’re insane,” Shanahan says.
“It might have worked, except you left a small bruise on her shoulder that Dr. Beckert correctly identified and you carelessly put her body in the tub facing the wrong direction. This time Dr. Beckert got it right–it wasn’t a suicide. You got lucky because Father Aguirre had been to her apartment earlier that evening and he was kind enough to leave his fingerprints all over the bathroom and the murder weapon. They were even able to lift his prints off her body. You were going to be involved in his defense–in fact, you tried to control his defense–un
til Father Aguirre hired us. You did everything in your power to persuade him to fire us, and if my guess is correct, you tried to intimidate us by hiring a man who was driving a stolen Chevy Impala. Coincidentally, the same car was seen behind the Mitchell Brothers Theater right after Jane Doe was shot and behind our office on the night that it was set on fire.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” he says. “If you raise any of this in court, I’ll bring you up before the State Bar. I was never anywhere near Ms. Concepcion’s apartment that night. You don’t have a shred of evidence that any of this fantasy ever happened.”
“Yes, I do.”
“What are you talking about?”
My eyes bore into his when I say, “You drive a Lexus RX 330, don’t you?”
“So what?”
“It was parked in the alley at the rear of Ms. Concepcion’s apartment building when you went inside to see her last Monday night.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“We have a witness, John.”
He stops cold.
“A man tried to steal your car while you were inside Ms. Concepcion’s apartment. We found him and he’s prepared to testify.”
“You’ll never be able to prove any of this.”
I turn to the back of the cathedral, where Luis Alvarado appears, flanked by Rosie, Pete and Roosevelt. “Do you recognize that man?” I ask.
Shanahan’s eyes lock onto Alvarado’s. “Of course not,” he says.
“Well,” I say, “he recognizes you.” I turn to the archbishop and say, “Before we leave tonight, you might want to escort Mr. Shanahan to one of the confessional booths. I think you and he will have some interesting things to talk about.”
The archbishop turns to his outside counsel and says, “If any of this is true, John, I am shocked and absolutely appalled.”
“It isn’t true,” he insists.
The archbishop glances at the altar and makes the sign of the cross. He pauses for a moment to recite a silent prayer, then he turns back to Shanahan and says, “We need to talk, John.”
The color leaves Shanahan’s face and he turns to Peterson. “I want to talk to my lawyer,” he says.
Chapter 56
“Life Has Consequences”
“Prominent San Francisco attorney John Shanahan has been charged with first degree murder in connection with the death of Maria Concepcion. District Attorney Nicole Ward is attempting to determine whether charges will also be brought against Father Francis Xavier Quinn. It does not appear that any charges will be filed against Archbishop Albert Keane.”
— San Francisco Chronicle. Tuesday, December 16.
“It’s nice to be home,” Ramon whispers. His voice is filled with a combination of relief and exhaustion as we’re sitting in the front pew at St. Peter’s at eight o’clock the next night. The flickers of the votive candles are reflecting off the ceiling and I’m reminded that it was less than two weeks ago when our little adventure started. It seems much longer. “It was nice of the children to come out and greet me.”
“Yes, it was.” There was a makeshift sign on the front steps welcoming Ramon back to the church, and a large gathering in the social hall that was more somber than celebratory. The kids welcomed him with open arms, but the adults were more subdued.
“Things take time,” I say. “People forgive.”
“But they never forget.”
I look up at the murals on the ceiling and think of the times I came here with my parents when this church was a haven. I remember the comfort it brought me when my brother was lost in Vietnam. I think of the pain when I came to the conclusion that I was ill-suited for the priesthood. It’s still a sanctuary full of hope and wonder, but it’s tempered by a half-century of experience. “It’s over, Ramon,” I say.
“I can’t believe John Shanahan killed Maria.”
“He probably thought he was going to settle the case and look like a hero to the archbishop. He couldn’t buy her off and he lost his temper. He was trained as a Marine and reacted when he thought he had no other options.”
“I guess it goes to show just how far people will go to avoid losing a big case.”
“Or to avoid having to give bad news to their meal-ticket client. Who knows what other hanky-panky was going on with the funds in his trust account? It wouldn’t surprise me if he was skimming some money off the top as a gratuity.”
“Desperate people do desperate things,” he says. “He has over three hundred lawyers to feed. A bad result in a big case for the archdiocese would have been a disaster for his firm. A revelation of financial improprieties involving funds belonging to the archdiocese would have put him out of business.”
“You’re more understanding than I am,” I say.
“You learn a lot of humility when you’re accused of murder.”
“It still doesn’t justify Shanahan’s actions.”
“Of course not, but it may help to explain them.”
We watch the dancing lights from the candles. He turns to me and says, “Are they going to charge Francis Quinn?”
“Probably not. Roosevelt said they think Quinn gave Shanahan authorization to try to settle the case for up to five million dollars, but he didn’t tell him to kill her.”
“What about the death of Jane Doe?”
“It was a professional job. They’re trying to find a connection between the transfer of funds from Shanahan’s trust account and several other cases, including the disappearance of another dancer from the Mitchell Brothers and the fire at our office. So far, they haven’t been able to connect the dots.”
“Do you think they will?”
“Roosevelt is tenacious.”
My old friend turns to me and asks, “Do you think you made the right move?”
“In talking to Shanahan and the archbishop last night?”
“In leaving the Church.”
That’s a tougher call, and I go with an old standby. “It was the right move for me.”
“No regrets?”
“None.” I reconsider and say, “Maybe a few.”
“Such as?”
“I used to have more time to sit in church and think.”
“You still can.”
“It isn’t the same. I’ve gotten too old and cynical.”
“It’s never too late.”
“It may be for me.”
“You’re a good lawyer, Mike.”
“Thanks. Do you buy the old line that everything happens for a reason?”
“Most of the time.”
“Maybe the reason you became a priest was because you knew Rosie and I would need you, and maybe I became a lawyer because I knew you were going to need me.”
“Maybe you became a lawyer because you weren’t happy being a priest.”
“Maybe you’re still a priest because you’re more perceptive than I am.”
“You lawyers always have to have the last word.”
He’s right. “What are you going to do next?” I ask.
“I’m going to take some time off.”
“Vacation?”
“They’re going to make me resign.”
“Not necessarily.”
“I was charged with murder. I had inappropriate relations with a parishioner. I acted as a sperm donor and lied about it.”
“We can fight it,” I say.
“I don’t think so, Mike.”
“You didn’t do anything illegal.”
“Maybe not, but I did a bunch of stuff that falls somewhere between bad judgment and flat-out immoral.”
“That’s why we go to confession, Ramon.”
“Confession doesn’t always wipe the slate completely clean. I try to teach the children that life has consequences. The same standard should apply to me.”
“Do you regret trying to help Maria?”
“No. I saw a desperately unhappy woman in need and I did what I could.”
“Are you prepared to accept the consequences even if it means leaving St
. Peter’s?”
“Yes.”
Impressive. “So,” I say, “let me ask you again. What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure. I’m still committed to doing God’s work.”
“There are a lot of ways to do God’s work without being a priest.”
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