by Mark M Bello
“Father Gerry has done this before?” Kenny inquired.
“Yes, we’re almost certain he has,” Rothenberg declared.
“And he can do it again?” Kenny questioned, with growing comprehension of the importance of their decision.
“If he goes unpunished or the criminal court allows him to hide his conviction, yes, he could do it again,” Rothenberg advised. “He has serious mental issues and needs to be kept away from children. If the public remains in the dark about him, he could easily do this again. He has to be stopped,” Rothenberg concluded.
“And we can stop him?” Jake wondered.
“That’s our hope. We think we can stop him,” Rothenberg suggested.
The boys looked at each other, resolutely, saying nothing.
“This will be hard,” Jennifer warned. “It will take a long time. You will be asked a lot of questions, and you will have to give answers. You will have to talk about the disgusting things he did and tell your stories to people you don’t know. I won’t make you do it. I won’t even consider going forward without both of you agreeing.”
“Can we talk about this a little?” Kenny glanced at Jake.
“Sure.” Rothenberg folded his arms, ready for the discussion.
“Alone, please?” Kenny requested.
Rothenberg cleared his throat, unfolded his arms, and stumbled to his feet. “Of course you can,” he managed, impressed with the young man’s maturity in such a stressful circumstance.
“Do you want me to stay?” Jennifer inquired.
“No, Mom, I want to talk to Jake,” Kenny demanded.
Jennifer and Rothenberg made their exit.
“We’ll be right outside when you’re ready,” Rothenberg advised, closing the conference room door.
***
After the adults left, the two boys sat still, in silent contemplation, taking in the weight of what they heard.
“Whaddaya think?” Kenny broke the silence.
“I dunno,” Jake mumbled.
“Father Gerry is a piece of shit! I don’t want him to get away with this,” Kenny snapped.
“N-No . . . me neither,” Jake agreed. “But, Kenny . . . everybody will know . . . yuck . . . everyone will know . . . he’ll go to jail, right?” Tears welled up in his eyes.
Kenny softened. “Maybe, maybe not. Who knows? Look, we don’t have to do it. Mom promised. But I don’t want to be the one who let him get away with this, and I don’t want to ever hear he did this to someone else or someone else’s brother, do you?”
“N-no . . . no, I don’t.” Jake stammered. He’s still a kid, thought the mature Kenny.
“Well, if we are the ones who can stop him, shouldn’t we do it?” Kenny concluded.
“Will Mom be doing this with us?” Jake wondered.
He’s coming around “I think so . . . let’s ask her,” Kenny suggested. “If she says yes, what do you want to do?”
“Concentration, I guess,” Jake decided.
“Compensation, squirt.” Kenny corrected his brother. He smiled but quickly changed expression in contemplation of the vital decision they were making and the long road ahead. He demonstrated maturity beyond his years.
“Okay, so if Mom is there with us, we’ll do the lawsuit thing, right?” Kenny clarified.
“Yes, Kenny,” Jake whispered.
“You’re sure? I’m not forcing you, and I won’t do this without you,” Kenny advised.
“I don’t want him to ever do this again. This will stop that?” Jake wanted reassurance.
“That’s what Mom and the doc say.”
“Okay then,” Jake agreed.
The boys rose, opened the door to the conference room, and called for their mother. Rothenberg and Jennifer hustled around a corner and into the room.
“We decided to do the lawsuit,” Kenny advised. “But only if Mom is there with us the whole time.”
“Yeah,” Jake concurred.
“We will both be there the whole time,” Rothenberg assured.
“The whole time,” Jennifer promised. “I’m proud of you guys. Dad would be proud of you guys, too. I’ll talk to the lawyer and get this thing started.”
The boys broke off in private conversation, satisfied with their decision to move forward. Jennifer stared at them, through them, trepidation inching into her psyche. Is this the right decision? Are they mature enough to handle this? Do they seriously understand what they’re signing up for? Do I?
She would be with them, every step of the way. If there were any signs the litigation was harming her kids, she’d shut it down. Gerry Bartholomew! This bastard must pay—he must be stopped. We’ll blow the lid off this whole affair . . . won’t we?
Chapter Fifteen
Zachary Blake had just returned to his drab, one-room office from traffic court. His big cases of the day were ninety-nine-dollar traffic ticket defenses. He had three of them on the docket today, a pretty good payday. He advertised for traffic cases in the newspaper and on the Internet.
He guaranteed prospective clients he would reduce a moving violation to a non-moving or “double your money back.” Since the courts had no room on busy trial dockets to try traffic cases, judges instructed city attorneys to negotiate any traffic matters that didn’t involve a collision. Zack’s ‘guarantee’ came with almost no risk. He could always plead down these cases and only paid off once. On a good day, he might knock off five or six of these cases, a six hundred dollar payday.
He opened the door and sat down in a broken, old chair at a second-hand desk, exhausted from dispensing justice to a bunch of drunks. He turned on his answering machine. There was a message! Jennifer Tracey, a former client, called to discuss a case involving her two sons. Jennifer Tracey? Do I know her? Probably another crap case—teenage drunks? I’ll call her tomorrow.
He sat back, reclining in the old, oversized executive chair, one of the few items he received in the partnership breakup. As the chair went back, the tension spring broke, and Zack toppled over. Figures. He dusted himself off, righted the chair, and sat back down. He closed his eyes and thought about his two hundred ninety-seven dollar day. In his heyday, each day was worth five grand in fees, maybe more. As he nodded off, the phone rang startling him, almost toppling the chair again.
“Zachary Blake.” He grumbled.
“Mr. Blake? This is Jennifer Tracey. You handled my husband’s industrial accident. Do you remember me?”
“Sure,” Zack lied. “How are you, Mrs. Tracey?”
“Fine. Call me, Jenny. How are you, Mr. Blake?”
“I’m fine, Jenny. Please call me Zack. What can I do for you?”
“I’d rather not discuss the matter over the phone. Can I come and see you, perhaps this afternoon, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”
“This afternoon? I’m afraid I’m booked solid,” Zack lied again. “Hang on; I’ll check with my secretary to see if anyone canceled.”
He put his hand over the mouthpiece and paused thirty seconds. He would have put Jennifer on hold, but he had only one line.
“My secretary tells me I have a three o’clock cancellation. Would you like to come then?”
“Oh, yes, thank you!” Jennifer exclaimed.
“You’re welcome. What kind of case is this, did you say?” Zack yawned.
“I didn’t. I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.”
“I need to know if it’s civil or criminal.”
“I’m pretty sure I understand what ‘civil’ means, so it’s ‘civil’ and ‘criminal.’ But I only need you for the civil.”
“All righty then. I’ll see you at three. Do you know where my office is?”
“Town Center, isn’t it?”
“Ah, ahem, not anymore,” Zack whispered. “I’m at 16922 W. Eight Mile, Suite 139, on the Southfield side, between Greenfield and Southfield.”
“I’ll find it.” Eight Mile? “Thanks very much, Zack, and God bless you.”
He hung up. God bless? That s
hip has sailed.
***
At 2:55 p.m., Jennifer Tracey arrived at the Law Offices of Zachary Blake, P.C. This is a far cry from Town Center. It was a small, one-story, puke-green building. The paint was chipping, the parking lot was full of potholes, and the windows needed washing. Inside, the lobby was tired, with dirty beige carpet worn to the pad.
Jennifer walked by rows of office doors, some closed, some open. The open ones revealed one-room, dingy offices. Was Blake’s office like these? How was that possible? What happened to him? Am I in the right place? Am I doing the right thing?
She found Suite 139 with a cheap black-and-silver plastic identification sign on the wall next to the door:
Suite 139, Zachary Blake, P.C.
Attorney and Counselor
The door was open, and there was Blake, sitting at his old desk. Some dingy side chairs sat on her side of the desk. The office setting she remembered was Taj Mahal.
Is this the same guy? He was great in Jim’s case. Is he up to the challenge of this one?
“Mrs. Tracey?”
“Jenny.”
“Jenny, of course. Did you have any trouble finding the office?”
“No, it was easy actually.”
“Good. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”
“I don’t know where to begin.”
“Try the beginning. It’s a perfect place to start, as my daughter and Julie Andrews used to say.”
He looks . . . I don’t know . . . off, somehow. The years have not been kind . . . “My husband died three years ago in an industrial accident at White-Chelsea, remember?”
“Yes, I do.” Not really.
She went through it all for him, starting with the death of her husband and through Father Bill’s departure. She sensed he wasn’t paying complete attention, but she continued anyway.
“I even invited Gerry to dinner. I hoped he could get through to the boys, talk to them. It only made them worse. At the time, I didn’t know why. I do now.”
“I’ll bite. Why?” Zack fidgeted.
“I’m getting there. Please be patient with me. This is difficult,” Jennifer struggled.
For me too, Zack brooded.
“Finally,” she continued, “Father Jon came over to see me. That’s Father Jonathan Costigan, our pastor.”
Zack pulled out a yellow legal pad and pretended to take notes.
“Father Jon asked how the kids were getting along. I told him, ‘Not very well.’ He offered to recommend a psychiatrist or psychologist and offered to pay for a consult or treatment, which I thought was strange. Jon claimed the church felt responsible because the kids’ problems originated with the camping trip.
“I was reluctant to accept what I thought of as charity. My husband would never take anything from anybody. He believed you made your own way in this world. We lived by that rule when he was alive, and I was determined to live by it after his death. Father Jon, however, wouldn’t take no for an answer. He finally convinced me to take the boys to the church therapist. That was the only thing I did right. After approximately two months of sessions with Dr. Rothenberg, the boys told him Father Gerry sexually molested them on the camping trip.”
Zack suddenly lit up with greedy glee. He sat up straight and scribbled something on his notepad. Jennifer noticed the change. She preferred his sudden enthusiasm to his earlier indifference but was still concerned by his surroundings.
“Has Father Gerry done this before?” Zack inquired.
“We’re not sure yet. Dr. Rothenberg is convinced Father Gerry has done this before. He feels we need to investigate this, go to his former parish, and talk to the police and parishioners.” Jennifer quavered, suddenly unsure whether she wished to continue sharing information with this man.
“He’s right,” Zack blurted. “That’s the difference between a good case and the mother lode! What else should I know?”
Jennifer now preferred his previous apathy to this sudden exuberance. She hesitated, sighed, and studied the lawyer. Then, Jennifer made a snap decision to proceed. She told him everything—about the Voice, the bugs, the surveillance, the pending criminal charges, everything.
“I will try to resolve this as discreetly as possible,” Zack promised.
Jennifer’s disdain for this remark was palpable. “On the contrary, we want publicity. I’ve talked to Dr. Rothenberg and both of my boys, and we’ve decided a public airing of this case, embarrassing though it may be, will act as a cleansing agent for Jake’s and Kenny’s guilt and shame. Gerry will be publicly vilified and proven guilty. Hopefully, he’ll serve prison time. If this case and the criminal prosecution are both high-profile successes, my boys will see that Gerry is the criminal and they are victims,” she chastised.
Zachary stubbornly persisted, against his own interest and despite her obvious displeasure. “I think you would be far better off, at least in the preliminary stages of this case, to keep things hush-hush. We can use this as a wedge to increase settlement funds. Tell them to give us X thousand more, and we will not publicize the result,” he coaxed.
“That is not the way we wish to proceed. We want as much publicity as possible,” Jennifer scoffed.
Zack wisely decided to retreat. “Okay, if that’s the way you want it,” he conceded.
She could tell he was appeasing her. Dollar signs were dancing in his eyes. What happened to my family’s champion from a few years ago?
Zack rifled through a drawer and produced medical authorizations and a contingency fee contract. Jennifer paused. What’s happened to him? His career? Is he up to this? Deciding she could terminate the relationship if he proved to be unworthy, she signed each form while listening to Zack explain his fees. He would collect a third of the settlement if he won, but would charge nothing if he lost. It was standard in the business, he explained. He promised Jennifer he would work hard for her and not rest until he got justice for her boys. Is she buying this?
Zack listened as Jennifer completed her story and the signing ceremony and rose to leave. She was perplexed. This wasn’t how she remembered him. This Zachary Blake was detached, disheveled . . . she wasn’t sure what it was. He seems . . . lost. Can he do the job?
He’d done an excellent job on Jim’s case. She reckoned he wouldn’t let her and her boys down, though she wondered what events had landed him in such a woeful office setting. She decided to proceed with caution.
Chapter Sixteen
“A Farmington police detective visited Father Jon,” the Voice hissed.
“Oh? What happened?” A Coalition member fretted.
“Jennifer Tracey pressed charges against Gerry.”
“I told you she was trouble.”
“Who do we know at police headquarters? Have Walsh get Parks on that and see if Father Jon’s parish included any local cops.” The Voice ordered, all about damage control.
“Good idea. I’ll handle that.”
“We need to start controlling and spinning press coverage. Dear Jennifer has already scheduled a news conference. This will be all over the papers and television. The key to the spin is to indicate this is an isolated incident, and the church is dealing with it internally and appropriately. The priest has been temporarily suspended—he will be now—and is seeking professional help. The official church position is it had no knowledge Gerry was a pedophile, and the church acted very responsibly by getting both perpetrator and victim into counseling as soon as the discovery was made,” The Voice declared.
“Sounds good to me.” He is an eerie dude.
“None of this strikes me as ‘good,’” The Voice admonished.
“It’s only a figure of speech,” the member gulped. “But, you’re correct. It’s probably not applicable here.”
“What about Gerry’s last placement? Is that situation under control?”
“Yes, the pastor has been briefed, and the victims well paid for their silence. The criminal file has been sealed, and we were able to persuade authorities over there to sea
l criminal results. Except for the pastor, the victims, and the cops, nobody over there knows about Gerry. Parishioners think he was transferred in the ordinary course.”
“Jennifer has hired a civil lawyer. We haven’t heard from him yet.”
“Is that right? Who is this guy?” a member queried. “We should check him out.”
“I am way ahead of you. Parks handed me his report this morning. Zachary Blake . . .” the Voice began to read from a report. “Born April 2, 1972, married in 1995, to Tobey Kosofsky. Graduated in ’97 from Western Michigan Cooley Law School with a C plus average. Worked for a couple of high-volume personal injury firms, then opened his own office with a couple of law school buddies, Stuart Geiringer and David Schwartz. Has a couple of kids.
“Here’s where it gets interesting. Three years ago, after building an eight-figure personal injury practice, with prestige offices in a Southfield high-rise, his partners staged a palace coup. Blake gets dumped and never recovers. His law practice and personal life go to shit. His wife cleans him out in a divorce and takes the kids. He’s been hustling two-bit, criminal and juvenile assignments or handling traffic tickets ever since.
“He’s got a one-room office in a shithole building on Eight Mile, lives in a small apartment in Southfield. He grossed about forty grand last year. He spent it all on child support and office expenses. If he lands a good case, word on the street is he settles on the cheap, for the quick buck. Sources say he’s lost his stomach for legal work,” The Voice snickered.
“He seems perfect for us. One room on Eight Mile? Quite a fall. Probably needs fast money. We can use that to our advantage and accommodate him.” A member laughed.
“Shall we approach him or wait for him to approach us?” Another pondered.