Bishop as Pawn

by William Kienzle

  None of these kids was doing especially well in math or English. Their primary school was the street. And the primary lesson of the street was how to get a gun and how to use it.

  The drive-by shooter had yet to be picked up.

  But the eighth-grader was in custody. How should he be tried? Was he what he looked like: a little boy just starting his teen years? As such he would go through the juvenile justice system and, if convicted of an extremely serious crime such as murder, he would be incarcerated with other juvenile offenders until he was twenty-one. Would he learn anything helpful in those years? Or would he emerge older but just as lethal?

  If he were fifteen or older, he could be tried as an adult and, if convicted, spend the rest of his long life in prison without the possibility of parole.

  Ferris shrank from the prospect of such a young life, promising everything and anything, being buried forever—first in prison, then in the ground.

  But, unless he missed his guess, that was the drift of the public’s reaction to kid crime. Such children, the consensus seemed to run, were beyond redemption as well as rehabilitation.

  These cases were among the most difficult he had to juggle. But juggle and evaluate them he would. That’s what he was paid for.

  He was about to turn out the light and call it a day—though not a good one—when his intercom sounded. He considered ignoring it. But he knew his secretary wouldn’t bother him at this closing hour unless something special had come up.

  Brad Kleimer wanted a few moments of his time.

  Through this day, Ned Ferris—just as every other power-wielding person in the city government—had been kept informed on the developments in the Diego murder. Had he not been so absorbed in the jacket shooting, Ferris surely would have been more actively involved in the Diego case. But the alleged perpetrator of the grade-school shooting was in custody and being processed—a procedure in which Ferris was actively involved.

  And of course, with the priest charged in the bishop’s murder, that case too was in Ferris’s lap. And now the other shoe had dropped.

  “Priest Kills Bishop,” and similar headlines, would be flashed on TV newscasts, on front pages and feature articles probably around the world. Undoubtedly, a scrum of prosecuting attorneys would be vying for this case. For just as surely as the case would engender headlines, so would the name of whoever prosecuted this case become famous.

  Now why, Ned Ferris wondered whimsically, would he associate the arrival of Brad Kleimer with the Diego case? When considering a trial that could catapult the prosecuting as well as defense attorneys into national prominence, why on earth would Kleimer’s name come to mind?

  Ned Ferris was bone weary and desperately wanted to go home. But he could always find time for a charade of musical hot seats: Which assistant prosecuting attorney would get the final chair?

  Ferris loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt He bade the secretary let loose Kleimer.

  Kleimer entered with studied nonchalance and took the chair that Ferris indicated. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. Some of his perspiration stemmed from the bum’s rush at the hands of Koznicki just a few moments ago. Part was due to his headlong dash to the chief’s office. It was not the cool entry he would have chosen, but he wanted to reach the chief before the other staff attorneys did. He fervently hoped he had.

  Kleimer consciously willed his heart to slow. “I suppose you’ve been following the Diego developments.”

  Ferris nodded benignly.

  “Then you must know,” Kleimer continued, “that a Father Carleson has been arrested and charged with the murder?”

  Ferris nodded again. “The news beat you here by only a few minutes.”

  For a moment Kleimer pondered the speed of sound. He could scarcely compete with that. Nonetheless, since the chief had just gotten the word, there couldn’t have been any applicants ahead of him.

  “Just as a matter of curiosity,” Ferris said, “how did you happen to know about this? I mean, I only just now got the word.”

  “One of the Homicide guys needed some direction on procedure.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  Kleimer needed no time at all to come up with a name. “lieutenant Quirt,” he lied. Quirt would know enough to back him.

  “Quirt. Hmmm.” Ferris was noncommittal. He rearranged several objects on his desk without any apparent purpose. “Looks heavily circumstantial.”

  “True. We’ve had lots stronger cases. We’ll have to use every advantage we can.” Actually, Kleimer considered the case to have many strengths.

  “I wonder …” Ferris looked at the ceiling. “It’ll be tough finding the right person to try this case.” He looked at his desk. “But I’d better come up with someone soon … very soon.” Ferris was having difficulty keeping a straight face.

  “Well …” Kleimer stood and began to pace. “… I was thinking: I’ve already been helping them on the case. I’m most familiar with it.” He looked at Ferris. “I’d like to try it.”

  There it was, out on the table.

  “You!?” Ferris treated Kleimer’s offer with the astonishment it should not have merited.

  “Yes, me.” Kleimer was nettled by the chief’s reaction. “As you’ve said, this is going to be a tough one. Well, right off the bat, I’ve got an arm and leg up on any of the special-assignment prosecutors. I’ve been in on this almost from the very beginning.”

  Ferris’s eyes widened. “Just how much procedural direction did the Homicide guys need!”

  “Well, you know how it is. One thing leads to another. Anyway, I was present while suspects were interrogated. And I’m well aware of who the various suspects are. And I can tell you straight out that this Carleson is a good arrest. Just let me get to that jury and that priest will be spending the rest of his life behind bars. No parole!”

  “Murder One! Think we should go for the first degree, eh?”

  “Absolutely.” Kleimer returned to his seat. “Murder One. And I’ll nail him.” He leaned forward. “I don’t need to remind you my record is pretty impressive …”

  Ferris studied Kleimer. “I do believe you’re right, Brad,” he said at length. “Barring any complication—and I don’t foresee any—you’re the logical choice to handle this trial. So, let’s go with this. And Brad” —his gaze pinned Kleimer—” keep me informed: about everything— everything … understand?”

  Kleimer was on his feet. “Yes, sir. I’ll get on this right away. Nothing to worry about.” Kleimer’s expression was one of simultaneous reassurance and gratitude. “And Chief: Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  The two men shook hands. Kleimer departed.

  Ferris gathered the documents he would take home for study. His mind wandered over this meeting with Kleimer. He was reminded of something conductor Zubin Mehta once said about Richard Wagner, the ethnically prejudiced German composer: that he was a fourth-class human being but a first-class musician.

  Something on that order could be said of Brad Kleimer.

  As far as Ferris could tell, Kleimer had only one moral code—if one could speak of it in terms of morality—and that was self-advancement.

  Ferris did not relish dealing with Kleimer. But one thing Kleimer had proven repeatedly was his skill in the courtroom. He could charm and sway a jury, sometimes even a judge. As long as the judge and jury did not have to live with the man, Kleimer would be effective. But so far, no one had had the stomach to stay with him for the long run. It was no surprise to anyone when his marriage had collapsed. If anything, Kleimer’s colleagues were astounded that it had dragged on as long as it did.

  So the bottom line was that Kleimer was the logical choice for this trial. And he would’ve gotten it without groveling.

  The position of chief trial attorney had been created under a previous prosecutor’s administration. It had been his responsibility—the position had never been filled by a woman—to handle high-visibility cases. Kleimer lusted
after that position. The present prosecutor had strong convictions that there should be, if the case warranted, a top female assistant prosecutor a top black assistant prosecutor, a top white assistant prosecutor, and so on.

  This case involved a white and a Hispanic. So it could have fallen under either heading. But since the alleged perpetrator was white, in all probability it would be given to a top white assistant prosecutor.

  Under that category, Kleimer was qualified.

  And if Kleimer had not fit the appropriate niche, Ferris had been prepared to refuse him steadfastly.

  Lately there had been a considerable intrusion by Kleimer into, for him, marginal categories. In his own obtrusive way, he had begun to insinuate himself into cases more suitable for others. In effect, Kleimer was trying to refashion the function of the office of chief trial attorney and fill it himself. Along the way, he was alienating a lot of fellow attorneys and making not a few enemies.

  Whatever, the Carleson-Diego case was now his.

  Ferris was torn. On the one hand, he wished Kleimer good fortune. After all, the business of this office was to get convictions. On the other hand, Ferris quietly hoped that this case would prove to be Kleimer’s launching pad to fame and would get him the hell out of the prosecuting attorney’s office.

  Ferris was about to extinguish his office lights and finally head for home when one final question came to mind.

  He dialed Homicide and got his answer: The priest would spend at least this night in a holding cell. Ferris was surprised. Locking up a priest before arraignment! Was nothing sacred any longer?

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  Don Carleson sat on the edge of his cot. He was the sole occupant of the cell. Probably, he thought, a special favor arranged by the officer in charge. He must be a Catholic; he had “Fathered” Carleson to pieces.

  Favor or not, he was grateful. He’d had some little experience in like surroundings. This was not Father Carleson’s first time being locked up.

  But it had been so long ago.

  Noisy. His small space was invaded by the sounds of men in other cells. Some were angry, some crying, some hallucinating. Some were trying to climb the walls in search of some substance that would open for them a door to blessed oblivion.

  It hadn’t been like this the other time, the first time.

  Carleson lay down on the cot and freed his mind to return to that other time.

  It had been warm. Hot. Not cold and damp, as it was now.

  Many years ago. In Nicaragua. In a tiny village called Sandego near the banks of the Rio Coco on the border of Honduras.

  The village was so insignificant and remote that he had actually felt insulted when he first laid eyes on it. What must his superiors in Maryknoll think of him to send him to such a godforsaken spot?

  Then he began to learn that his little town actually was the antithesis of a place abandoned by God.

  The inhabitants were Catholic … Catholics with simple, childlike faith. They had been promised that a priest was being sent to them. So they had pooled their meager resources and put together a makeshift but practical chapel.

  On his arrival, the entire village turned out to greet him. All were wearing their very best rags. In all his time with them, he never discovered how they knew when he would arrive. It was their happy secret.

  Happy was the appropriate word for these people. In the face of their constant lighthearted effervescence, he began to believe he’d been given the best assignment Maryknoll had. He found himself pitying priests missioned in major cities like Managua or, save the mark, Chicago or New York. Such priests were reduced to inventing games to attract people to the Church. Helpful too was the threat of hellfire for absence from Church services.

  Here in Sandego, he just rang a bell when it was time for services and everybody came with incandescent smiles.

  In a word, the spirit was contagious. In no time, Father Carleson was one with his villagers, his congregation, his people.

  He had brought with him not only Mass vestments, missal, and an initial supply of bread and wine, he also carried basic medications that would make life at least less painful for the people.

  Of all his earliest accomplishments, Carleson was perhaps most proud of the well. Each evening, he would read from the do-it-yourself manual for finding a water supply and digging a well.

  The villagers pitched in enthusiastically if blindly. They had no real concept of what he was attempting. They just sensed that the poor man wanted to dig a hole and he needed help. So they pitched in, smiling and throwing dirt. The hole became so deep that they had to pass the dirt up in baskets. And they were forced to help each other up and down the sides of the hole.

  And then, a miracle.

  Water. Cool, refreshing, and pure. And available.

  It didn’t take long for them to realize that they no longer had to carry water from the river. Or fear the diseases river water often brought.

  Now the water was right in their midst. They had access to it anytime. There didn’t even have to be a special need or necessity. It was theirs and it was pure.

  It was a miracle. And Padre Don was the miracle worker.

  In time, Carleson almost forgot there was a world beyond Sandego. He forgot he was living in greater poverty than he had ever experienced or imagined. Sandego and the lovely people he served completely fulfilled him.

  There was a cloud on the distant horizon. It lay just beneath the consciousness of the inhabitants of Sandego.

  It was a band, a group, an army called the Contras. The Contras were at war with the revolutionary Sandinista government of Nicaragua. Later, it would sicken Carleson to learn that the U.S. government had overtly and covertly subsidized the Contras.

  It had been more than a year since the Contras’ previous visit to Sandego. But that visit had been so savage that the inhabitants had not been able to forget it.

  Carleson of course knew of the Contras, but gave them no more than passing thought. He was certain they would never inflict themselves on the sleepy hamlet of Sandego. It would be like bombing a small town in the Louisiana bayous. Why?

  They arrived one night as the stars were fading. As soundlessly as a stalking jungle cat. With the dawn, men armed to the teeth roughly awakened the villagers—including their priest.

  The villagers—even the children—were ordered, pushed, clubbed into a single line and forced to remain motionless and silent while the officers toured the village. After their investigation, they reviewed the assembly. They noted with special interest the Yankee priest.

  As far as Carleson could tell, everyone—captives and captors—was Catholic. All spoke Spanish. And that meant nothing.

  He was only slightly fearful—not at all for himself. He viewed the invaders as a form of purgatory. No matter how nasty things got, it would be over and done with eventually. The Contras would have to move on sometime.

  A man with the insignia of a colonel appeared to be the ranking officer. He addressed the assembled villagers. It was mostly badly memorized propaganda. After the canned lecture, he got down to reality. They would not stay long. They needed supplies. They would take whatever fitted their needs. During their stay, the villagers would be required to work for the Contras and not themselves. Their degree of cooperation would dictate the longevity of this occupation.

  With that, the soldiers took over. The villagers were forced to begin gathering up everything this little town had.

  The colonel, along with another officer with the insignia of major, took Carleson to the well. They showed much interest in it. They had been here before. They knew that the well raised the value of this land. They asked question after question. Carleson answered them all. It didn’t matter to him whether they dug their own well. Probably back at base camp there were women and children that could use the convenience of their own water supply. At one point, he simply gave them the book he’d used to bring water to Sandego. The colonel cursorily paged through the book and h
anded it to the major, who looked at it, shrugged, and tossed it aside. They were illiterate.

  From time to time, Carleson would note the gratuitous cruelty of the soldiers. Twice he moved toward intervening. Each time, the colonel’s aides jabbed rifles into his ribs.

  Finally, the day was done. The villagers were forced to prepare food and serve it to the invaders. The residents were allowed nothing. If any Sandegan dared smuggle a morsel for self, one of the old people or a child was beaten.

  Carleson was excused from serving the dinner. He was even invited to eat. He refused. It made absolutely no difference to the Contras. He could starve for all they cared.

  After the meal, the soldiers gave the scraps to the stock animals that they would take with them when they left. They had shot all the village dogs.

  A young soldier walked across the firelit circle, knelt next to the major, and whispered something. The major whispered to the colonel. Both laughed heartily. The colonel waved his hand signifying permission.

  The soldier, with four comrades, walked slowly around the circle of attending villagers. They stopped before a strikingly beautiful girl barely out of childhood.

  Two grabbed her and dragged her screaming to the center of the circle near the fire. Her parents shrieked their pleas for her. They were clubbed back, as were the others who objected.

  Slowing, savoringly, they stripped her. While four pinned her to the ground, the young soldier lowered his trousers and gleefully raped her, thrusting more brutally with each of her screams, which seemingly added to his enjoyment.

  Villagers tried to look away, but the soldiers forced them to watch.

  Carleson, seated near the two commanding officers, was not observed so carefully. He shut his eyes so tightly that tears rolled down his cheeks. He pressed his hands against his ears, but could still hear the girl’s horrible screams.