Every Saint a Sinner

by Pearl Solas

  After she had stowed all the perishables, she looked down at her watch. “Two minutes, sweetie,” she called up from the foot of the stairs. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  She considered the groceries still on the counter. She could drop the non-perishables and paper towels in the storage area in the strongroom on the way to the car. Arms full, Veronica made her way to the strongroom and groaned in frustration when she tried the door handle and found it locked. She put down her load and prepared to stretch onto her toes to grab the key they kept on the door molding. She stopped when she saw the note taped to the steel door.

  Momma,

  I love you. The keys are in here

  with me. Don’t try to open the door,

  just call the police. I’m sorry.

  The light in the room contracted to a pinprick, and all Veronica heard was her own ragged breathing. Pounding on the steel door, she pulled her phone out and dialed 9-1-1 with violently shaking fingers. The line connected, she barely got out their address. She dropped the phone and alternated between saying “no, no, no, no, no” and shouting her dear heart’s name. Not caring about its fruitlessness, she backed up several paces and launched herself at the steel door. She continued doing this until the police arrived and gently but insistently escorted her outside.

  Chapter Six

  “How you holdin’ up, kid?”

  “Oh, you know,” replied Veronica, wrapping her coat tightly around herself as a shield against the surprisingly bracing spring wind. “One foot in front of the other.”

  Her mentor took a long look at her, and they continued the walk back to the office from lunch.

  “I’ve been worried about you,” said Andy. “Not about your work—it’s better than ever, really—but about you. You haven’t really taken any time since . . . Sean . . . and I’m just concerned about how healthy that is. How is Tom managing? The girls?”

  “Well, we haven’t seen much of the girls lately. They’re just across the city, but they seem to be coping by burying themselves in school. Probably for the best. I’m burying myself in work, and Tom’s burying himself in baking . . . and eating.”

  “The board’s offer is still open. If you need to take some time away, just say the word and we’ll make it happen.”

  “Thanks, Andy. I really do need to work right now, though. It’s the only thing that’s felt at all sane. There is something I’d like you to take to the board for me, though.”

  “Anything.”

  “I’ve been doing some reading, and there’s a fair amount of information out there about priests like Paul Peña. These priests’ superiors knew what they were doing to children, but they hushed it up and just moved the priests to other assignments. Based on the number of victims who came forward against Peña, just here in Colberg, it’s impossible that he wasn’t doing the same thing wherever he was before. If he was, and the Church knew about it, then they are just as responsible for what he did here. For what he did to Sean.”

  Andy stopped walking and turned to Veronica. She averted her face from the overwhelming force of his concern.

  “Oh, Ronnie. You know that nobody ever walks away from a lawsuit satisfied. Or vindicated.”

  Veronica looked down at her feet. “I just need to try to make somebody accept responsibility.”

  “Peña’s in prison for the rest of his life.”

  “That’s not enough. He’s not the only one to blame. And he never actually accepted responsibility.”

  Andy sighed and rubbed his face with his hand. “I’ll talk to the rest of the board. I assume you’ve already run a conflict check?”

  “Yes. John Anderson did some work with the diocese years ago, but it was just some estate planning for retiring priests. We talked and he agrees there’s no ethical concern.”

  “Under the circumstances, I doubt the board will stand in your way. I have no idea how Sandy Conlin will react, though. He’s about as devout as they come, and he’s going to hate the idea of the firm’s name being associated with a lawsuit against the Church.”

  “Shit, Andy, I’m devout. I hate the idea of suing the Church. But we’ve all just trusted it to act in our best interests. If it’s knowingly been placing wolves in our midst, then it needs to face the consequences.”

  Andy held out his palms and ducked his head. “I get it. I suspect the board is going to want you to limit the resources you use. You’ll have to do the brunt of the work yourself without much help from associates. Have you ever managed a lawsuit from the plaintiff’s side before? I know we haven’t done one together.”

  Veronica shook her head.

  “Well, I met a guy at last year’s ABA conference who brings these kinds of cases against the Church. I’ve probably still got his card back at the office. I’ll find it and get it to you. Maybe he can give you some advice.”

  “Thanks, Andy.”

  “Good luck, kid.”

  * * *

  Andy’s contact, Lane Gorman, turned out to be an invaluable resource.

  “I’m not gonna sugarcoat it for you, Veronica. You’re used to working for multinational oil companies, insurers, and global retailers. I went up against those kinds of behemoths earlier in my career and they got nothin’ on the Church. You probably think the Church will approach a grieving mother with some sense of moral or spiritual justice or reconciliation. The sooner you get that idea out of your head, the better. The Church will hire lawyers who’ll go to the mattresses as hard as you would for your best insurance client.”

  Veronica swallowed hard.

  “You there?” Lane barked into the phone.

  “Yes, sorry. I understand.”

  “Good. The Church always digs in on two tactics: statutes of limitation and discovery hardball. They’ll have a statute of limitation motion filed so fast it will make your head spin. If they win there, you won’t even get the pleasure of having them fight you tooth and nail before they’ll turn over any documents in discovery. I’ve done some work in Colberg and, in all honesty, you’re gonna have an uphill battle. The Church wins on statute of limitation grounds nine times out of ten. I’ll send you the briefing we’ve done there and you’re welcome to use anything that’s helpful to you.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  “Don’t mention it. We’ve gotten to the discovery phase a few times in Colberg. We have everything we’ve received from the Church in a database to paint a picture of the Church’s practices throughout the country. I’ll look and see if we have anything on your priest.”

  “Thanks again, Lane.”

  “Don’t thank me until you get somewhere with it. Give ’em hell.”

  Chapter Seven

  Veronica hung up the phone in her office and looked past the fluorescent light reflected in the large windows to the dark city beyond. Her fingers roamed the space of her bare leg, searching for just the right bump to pick and worry over.

  Tom had been frustrated when she called to tell him she would be staying late at the office yet again to work on her response to the Church’s statute of limitation motion. If the Church won, her fight would be over before it had begun. The Church decision-makers—who had known what Paul Peña was capable of, who had known what he had been accused of doing to adolescents in previous assignments, but who had chosen to transfer him to Sacred Heart anyway—would get off scot-free. All because of the idea that, if injured parties didn’t act quickly enough to hold the responsible parties accountable, courts shouldn’t waste their time with their claims.

  Veronica only knew about the issues at Peña’s previous assignments because, true to his word, Lane Gorman had searched his databases and found relevant files in the documents the Church had been forced to turn over in other lawsuits. Before sending the files to her, Lane issued a stern warning.

  “Listen, Veronica, when the courts forced the Church to give us these documents, they put strict limits on what we could do with them. You cannot use them, or even refer to them, in court or in
anything you file.”

  “I get it, Lane.”

  “I need to know I’ve been clear. You’d get me into hot water if you tried to use them. I’m only sending them to you so that you’ll know what exists and what you need to fight for when you request documents from the Church. I’m trusting you, Veronica. Don’t fuck me over.”

  * * *

  As Lane had predicted, the Church’s immediate response to Veronica’s lawsuit was a request for the court to find that even if everything Veronica accused the Church of was true, she had simply filed the lawsuit too late to be allowed to proceed. The same day, Veronica received a call from the lawyer representing the Church. With smug confidence, he offered to settle for a pittance to avoid racking up attorneys’ fees for a case that, he reasoned, Veronica must know had no chance of success. Veronica kept her cool long enough to politely decline.

  He wasn’t wrong about her chances, but Veronica had done her best with the state’s unfavorable law. In a flash of creative brilliance, she had settled on a strategy that might just have a shot. Right before she called Tom to tell him she wouldn’t be home for dinner, she had felt the triumph of finding just the right support for her theory. She shook off her exhaustion and set to work, weaving the authorities into her response in a way that would make the Church’s smug lawyer choke on them.

  Chapter Eight

  “All rise for the Honorable Jeanine Stangl.”

  Veronica pushed back her chair and stood, staring straight ahead at the small, black-robed woman who emerged from the wood-paneled door behind the raised judicial bench, holding a coffee cup and a legal pad. She settled herself into the large leather chair and looked over her glasses at the courtroom.

  “Be seated. We’re here today in the matter of Matthews versus the Catholic Dioceses of Colberg and Granton. Counsel, please state your appearances for the record.”

  Veronica stood. “Veronica Matthews on behalf of the Matthews family as plaintiffs, Your Honor.” She sat.

  The lawyers on the other side of the aisle stood, while the cassock-clad representatives of the diocesan defendants remained seated. The voice of the lawyer with more silver in his hair boomed. “Grayson Greene and William Gordon for the defendants, Your Honor.”

  The judge looked at the mass of papers before her. The court reporter’s fingers hovered at the ready over her stenography keyboard. “Before the court is defendants’ motion. I’ve read all the briefing. Mr. Greene, it’s your motion, so you may begin.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. We won’t bore the Court by regurgitating what’s in the papers we filed. For the most part we’ll stand on our briefing. Of course, the Matthews family has suffered a terrible, unimaginable loss. I know every person in this courtroom empathizes with Mrs. Matthews and her family . . .”

  Shove your fake empathy up your arrogant ass, thought Veronica. She looked straight ahead.

  “But even if the plaintiffs could somehow prove that my clients were responsible for the injuries sustained by Sean Matthews, or for his death—which, let’s be clear, my clients do not concede and plaintiffs can offer no evidence to support—even then the law would require this court to rule in favor of my clients.”

  Greene moved to an easel that faced the judge and removed the covering that concealed the poster-sized diagram there.

  “The plaintiffs allege that my clients negligently and recklessly supervised Paul Peña, and as a result of this allegedly unlawful supervision, Paul Peña sexually assaulted Sean Matthews. As the court is aware, plaintiffs had two years to file a lawsuit from the date the injury was discovered. If we go with the latest possible date of discovery—the date Sean Matthews’s assault was reported to the police—plaintiffs’ deadline expired here.” Greene used a laser to point to a date on his timeline.

  “Sean Matthews took his own life almost a year after that deadline, and the plaintiffs did not file their lawsuit until a year after that.” Greene pointed to the respective dates on the timeline.

  “As the court can plainly see, the plaintiffs simply filed their lawsuit too late, and the law requires you to rule in the defendants’ favor.”

  Greene sat and the judge, satisfied that he had completed his remarks, inclined her head toward Veronica. Veronica wiped her palms on her pant legs and her voice, when it issued, betrayed none of her anxiety.

  “Thank you, Your Honor. I’ll also refer you primarily to our briefing with just a few comments. Mr. Greene is correct in two respects: Yes, the filing deadline is two years, and yes, it begins to run as of the date the victim discovers the injury. What Mr. Greene failed to discuss is that many courts have found ‘discovery of the injury’ to be different in cases like this. Courts around the country have recognized that, in cases of rape and sexual assault, children and adolescents cannot be held to the same standard as adults when it comes to discovery of the injury. They can’t be said to have discovered their injury, for purposes of filing deadlines, until they have sufficient maturity to fully appreciate the effects of that injury.”

  Veronica took a breath. Slow down, she cautioned herself. You’re rushing.

  “For this reason, in many states, the two-year clock Mr. Greene pointed to with such impressive effect on his slick visual aid doesn’t even begin to run until the victim is at least 18. In some states, the clock doesn’t start until age 21. If Sean Matthews had lived,” Veronica could not keep the quaver out of her voice, “he would still be several months away from his eighteenth birthday. Because he could have brought a claim in his own right, at the very least, his estate should be permitted to proceed with its claims against the defendants. We respectfully request that the court deny defendants’ motion.”

  Veronica had begun to ease her way back into her seat when the judge asked, “Mrs. Matthews, how do you respond to the case cited in the defendants’ reply to your argument? Doesn’t it indicate that our state supreme court has already rejected the very argument you’re making here?”

  “Your Honor, it’s important to understand how the facts of that case are different from the circumstances here. In that case, the plaintiff suffered a purely physical injury as a passenger in a car accident that happened when he was 14. He didn’t file suit until after he had turned 19, and our supreme court held it was not proper to toll the discovery rule until he turned 18. That decision should not be binding here. The cases from other states referenced in the papers we filed explain how the psychological injuries sustained by sexually assaulted children are different from purely physical injuries, and why the victims cannot reasonably appreciate, or ‘discover’ for our purposes, the extent and impact of the injury until reaching the age of majority.”

  The judge wore a doubtful expression. “Well, counsel, our supreme court wrote: ‘We reject the rule adopted by other jurisdictions that an adolescent plaintiff may be deemed not to discover his injury until reaching the age of majority.’ That language doesn’t really support the distinction you’re asking me to make, does it?”

  “Again, Your Honor, with respect, I’d urge you to revisit the cases outlining why these types of psychological injuries are different.”

  The judge pursed her lips and gathered the papers scattered in front of her into a stack, which she tapped on the table to smooth the edges. Then she leaned forward, resting her forearms on the bench in front of her as she addressed Veronica. “Mrs. Matthews, like counsel for the defendants, the court sympathizes with your . . . situation.”

  I don’t want your sympathy, thought Veronica. I want you to do the right thing! Veronica rarely cried, but nothing stimulated her tear ducts like righteous anger that otherwise lacked an outlet. She felt her eyes prickle. Not now! she pleaded.

  “As you know,” continued the judge, “I am charged with upholding the law as it is, not as I might wish it to be. To opposing counsel’s point, the allegations in your complaint are light on specifics and long on supposition. It’s not clear to me why the Granton diocese has been named as a party to this lawsuit. Even if it were
permitted to proceed, it seems unlikely that you would be able to make a case against the Church.”

  Veronica did not pause to check in with her internal cost-benefit calculator before jumping up. She was on the verge of losing, and if there was ever a time for a Hail Mary, this was it. “I can explain why we named Granton, Your Honor.” The judge’s eyes bulged at the interruption. With fumbling fingers, Veronica found the file she needed. “May I approach?”

  “Go ahead,” said the judge with poorly concealed irritation.

  “The bishop of the Granton diocese, that man right there,” Veronica pointed to one of the two cassocked men at the defendants’ table, “knew of at least seven complaints against Paul Peña.” Frenetically, Veronica laid out seven pieces of paper on the table before the judge. “He did nothing! All he did was transfer Peña to the Colberg diocese. Then, when Peña got to Colberg, . . .” Veronica rifled through her file for the evidence to support her next statement.

  “Your Honor!” exploded Greene. Having finally recovered his ability to speak through his apoplexy, the empurpled lawyer shot up and shouted over Veronica. “This is completely improper! There has been no discovery of any kind in this case. May I see the documents she’s showing you?”

  The judge nodded. “Approach,” she directed.

  After a brief examination, Greene pointed to the numbers stamped at the bottoms of the pages. “Your Honor, these documents appear to have been produced in a number of different lawsuits. They certainly were not produced in this one. It is absolutely unacceptable for Mrs. Matthews even to have seen them, let alone try to use them here.”

  The judge fixed a stern glare on Veronica. “I have to agree, Mr. Greene. The court reporter will strike all portions of the record beginning from when Mrs. Matthews interrupted my ruling.”