Wrestling With God

by Hanley, Don;

  He chuckled and said, "Well, I'm glad I passed. And now I'm even more interested in meeting your Jerry."

  "So, tell me more about this project of yours." I looked at my watch and we only had forty-five more minutes left for our visit.

  "Well, this 'project,'"—Jack used the two-fingers on each hand gesture for quotes—"is this: I just learned that a priest who has been molesting children has been named a bishop. I want to see him exposed because as a bishop, he will be in a position to harm even more children."

  This was an alarming piece of information. I looked around the little room, at the corners, the ceiling and anywhere else where a microphone could be hidden. After bending down and looking under the chairs and table, Jack said, "I am almost certain that there are no mikes in this room. It's policy. Occasionally we have the right to privacy. And, yes, this is a big damn deal."

  I had learned from Jerry that bishops in the Catholic Church had a great deal of power over other priests, nuns, and lay people. Exposing one would definitely be a big deal, and a big legal deal, so I asked, "Where did you learn of this, Jack? And has this been fairly recent when this all came down?"

  "I learned of this from one of my fellow inmates. He was convicted of a crime and sent here about eight months ago. He told me in August and I've spent some time attempting to make sure he was not making it all up. Now, I am sure he is telling the truth."

  "What kind of evidence have you found? After all, you can't run around like a private investigator. You are rather limited ..." I looked around our room, larger than the others but beginning to feel cramped "... being stuck in this place."

  "This fellow, my informant, was molested by this priest when he was a boy, and he gave me the names of two others who were also raped. Because of my teaching and counseling, I have a few privileges, like a telephone in the counseling room."

  "Why is your informant now in prison?"

  Jack gritted his teeth, made a fist, and snarled, "Because he beat the shit out of a priest who molested his ten-year-old sister."

  Involuntarily, I put my hand over my mouth and worked to take a deep breath. "Is that the same priest who is set to be a bishop?"

  "No, another one in a different parish—a different diocese, even."

  "So what's the name of the designated bishop?"

  "Joseph Carson." Jack snarled again.

  "I think I saw a picture of him recently in the National Catholic Reporter. Jerry gets copies of that paper. I thought you looked a bit familiar when you came through that door. You sort of look like him. Are you related?"

  "My answer is off the record—at least for now. I think it is important at this time for you to know, but it is off the record, okay?" Jack looked at me questioningly, but earnestly.

  "Yes. Off the record."

  "He looks like me ..." Jack took a deep breath, exhaled, and added, "He changed his name, but he is my identical twin brother."

  Chapter 2

  REBECCA

  It took us two weeks to get our admissions slips so Jerry and I could visit Jack Carroll and his informant, Richard Quinn. We were heading west from St. Louis in my Prius and Jerry was driving. We had decided to "compartmentalize" our time working on Jack's "project" and not talk about it too much. Compartmentalizing was Jerry's idea because he said the damn thing would take over our lives because it was so emotional and complex. I secretly think he thinks I like Jack too much and is tired of hearing about him. Anyway, I agreed. I think he is better at compartmentalizing than I am; it is a man-thing.

  It felt good to take a trip with just me and Jerry. We hadn't done that since right after our honeymoon. Julie, now seventeen, was still living with me when we got married and it just seemed natural to adopt her, which we did. April, our two-and-a-half year old, was conceived on our honeymoon in Paris, France. I say "France" because the town where Jerry, then Father Jerry, was a priest was named Paris, Kansas, population 900+. We talked about the girls, especially Julie's basketball. As a freshman, she had been the starting point-guard at an inner city high school. That team made it to the Missouri State tournament. She switched to St. Louis University High School, and, again, was the starting point-guard. That team made it to the State semi-finals but lost. Last year, they won the State Championship, and were on track to repeat this year. Julie had received over two dozen offers for scholarships from all over the country. With all that, she was also an honor roll student academically.

  A few miles from St. Louis, I said, "Well, Jer, what did you find out about Jack's twin?"

  "My seminary classmate, Max, who works in Joe Carson-Carroll's diocese, said he had a reputation as a real law-and-order guy. More importantly, he said he knew of some rumors about Carson possibly molesting some children. I asked if he had proof or if anything had been reported and he said 'No.' He knew that Joe had been discussed as a candidate for bishop, but he didn't think it was official yet. He knew of the article in the St. Louis paper but was sure it was premature. He even ventured a guess that Joe had sent it to the Post-Dispatch to hurry up his promotion. Max doesn't like Joe at all. Joe is the chancellor of the diocese and acts like he is the head honcho in a king's court.

  "Max asked how I liked married life and after joking around a bit, I said, 'I really love being married. I found the most wonderful and beautiful woman in the world. And we have two daughters, one adopted and in high school, and one natural daughter who is two-and-a-half. I don't know how I lived without them all these years.' Then I told him he ought to try it. Then he reminded me that he is gay and I said, 'That shouldn't stop you from finding a mate and having a family.' He replied, 'Well, someday come to Illinois and I'll tell you about my family.'"

  "And you really told him I was wonderful and beautiful?" I hate to admit I felt relieved when he said 'Yes.' He never could believe me when I told him that I really never graduated too far from thinking I'm the homely and awkward teenager I thought I was in high school.

  I was glad he changed the subject when he asked, "Now, tell me about the Innocent Project."

  "It's at St. Louis University and is headed by a Jesuit. I'm surprised you didn't know that. All I really found out is that there are several dozen cases they have ahead of us, but if we can wait—or if Jack can wait—they may be able to help."

  We discussed the case until we pulled into the parking area at Booneville. We went through the whole rigmarole and when we entered the Sallyport, Jerry seemed more bothered by the clang of the metal-on-metal door locks than I had been. Dan McGuire, the same guard who had called Jack 'Doc,' led us into the visiting area and pointed Jerry toward the same room in which I had seen Jack before. I entered a smaller adjacent room with an even smaller bolted-down table.

  I sat down and, again, looked around for a hidden mike but didn't find one. Silly, I know. Soon a door clanged open and I had another surprise. A scrawny young man, looking to be in his mid to late twenties, hesitantly crept into the room. He was as timid and withdrawn as Jack had been confident and outgoing. I stood, and he was a bit shorter than me and probably weighed the same. I held out my hand and said, "Good afternoon. I'm Rebecca Brady, and you must be Richard Quinn. I am happy to meet you."

  Quinn allowed me to touch his hand, but I wouldn't call it a handshake. "Most folks call me Richy. You can call me that, if you like."

  I sat down at the table and Richy sat at the opposite corner, as far away as possible but still only about four feet away. "I'm glad that you are willing to talk to me, Richy. With your help, we may be able to help some children."

  Richy took a quick nervous breath and said, "Hope so. What do you want me to tell you?"

  "First, do you want to know something about me?"

  "Doc already told me you were a writer and that you may write something about child molestation and maybe help get a priest into prison. He showed me an article you wrote in a women's magazine. You're a good writer." He never made eye contact with me and stared at the wall behind me the whole time.

  "Thank you, Ri
chy. First, tell me a little about yourself—like, what it was like living with your family as you were growing up.

  "We didn't have much of a family. I never knew my dad. My mom called him my sperm donor. Mom got cancer when I was about three and we moved in with my grandma. Mom died some years later. I don't remember her hardly at all. Grandma and me, that was the family. Grandma was a very strict but loving person, I guess. She died about ten years ago, when I was in high school. I never finished high school."

  To help him feel more at ease, I told him about my growing up in New York with just a mother and a series of stepfathers. I didn't tell him that the last stepfather I knew tried to rape me and that I ran away. I thought that maybe I would share that with him sometime in the future. I ended by saying, "I lived with an old couple the last two years of high school." Richy didn't seem interested, so I asked, "Where did you live after your grandma died?"

  "Here and there. Sometimes in jail, sometimes with friends, sometimes on the street." He spoke in a monotone, as if everything and everyone were exactly the same—nothing was more important or exciting than anything or anyone else.

  "Doc told me that you knew Father Joe Carson quite well when you were young. What can you tell me about him?"

  For the first time, Richy looked at me and the look was a puzzling mixture of anger, sadness, questioning, and something I couldn't figure out. His voice definitely had more feeling, as he said, "Yeah, I knew the bastard. Do you really want to hear about him?"

  "Yes, I would, Richy. After all, he's the one we want to get, right?"

  He almost shouted, "Yeah, we want to nail the bastard ... a big goddamn nail clear through his fuckin' body!"

  He glared at me as if to challenge me to contradict him for using foul language or something.

  "I know he molested you. Would you tell me about it and about him?"

  "Yeah, by god, I will, lady. I hope you got a strong stomach."

  I took a deep breath and did my best to relax my body and to keep eye contact with him every time he looked my way.

  He began, "Well, to start with, we, Grandma and me, lived in the poor part of town and across the street from the Catholic church. Grandma went to Mass and Communion every morning, and most mornings I went with her when I was in the sixth grade. After a few weeks, Father Joe—that's what everybody called him—asked me to serve Mass for him. He told me all about it. I felt important and special, mostly on Sundays when there were lots of people in the church. Grandma was real proud of me, too. Mom was already sick, so she didn't go to church much, but Grandma said she was glad that I was going." He glanced over to make sure I was listening and went on, "I remember Grandma once saying that Mom said, 'Richy, maybe you'll grow up and be a priest. Wouldn't that be something?'"

  "Richy, was Father Joe kind to you in those early days when you served Mass?"

  Richy pondered the question a bit. "Yeah, he was, most of the time. He was different with me than most of the other kids. He ordered everybody around most of the time, but with me, Father Joe kinda acted like my substitute dad. Sometimes, if I messed up, he'd be real strict and would scold me, and then other times he was kind. He'd invite me into his house and we'd have breakfast after Mass. Sometimes, he'd give me little jobs to do, like rake leaves, clean his car and the garage and stuff like that. And he'd give me a dollar or two, depending on how long I worked. One day, he told me that I was really special and real special people did real special things."

  Richy looked at the ceiling and then back at me. In a near whisper, he went on, "One of the special things special people did was to take off their clothes and fondle each other. I remember that word, 'fondle,' 'cause I looked it up. It means to touch affectionately or to show you cherish something by touching it lovingly." He hesitated again and looked toward the ceiling like someone might look in awe at the stars. "The way he said it, and the look in Father Joe's eyes were different, like he was working hard to be kind and gentle. I liked the way he talked that first day. I was one of his special people in the world. We went into his bedroom. It smelled real nice—not like a lady's perfume—but nice. I was really nervous, but Father Joe took off his clothes like it was just an everyday kind of thing. Like I was special, and because l was special, I was blessed; I was able to watch him undress. Thinking that made it easier for me.

  Richy looked over at me to see if I was thinking badly of him or judging him in some way. I must have had the acceptable look, as he went on, "Well, we laid down on the bed, and he fondled my, uh, pecker, and then asked me to fondle his. And I was afraid like maybe God would strike me dead or something, but I thought that Father Joe was a holy man of God and if he said it was okay, then it is not a sin.

  "And I felt really good and excited ... maybe the best I ever felt in my life. And we did this—get naked and fondled each other—a lot for about, I don't know for sure, but about two years."

  I must have gasped, as he said, "Does this shock you, Miz Brady?"

  "I was sure he'd pick up a lie if I said no, so I said, "Yes, Richy, it does. It shocks me that a man as well educated as a priest and who was supposed to be especially ethical and good, would seduce a young boy. I am not a Catholic, but I do know that priests do talk a lot about having a pure mind and a pure body and ."

  Richy finished for me, "... and all that bullshit, right? Because that is what it is if they don't live it."

  "It stopped when Father Joe was transferred to a different parish. I was devastated. I longed to be with him. Of course, I didn't tell Grandma or anyone else about this. It was special and still, I felt ashamed. I was really a stupid, mixed up kid. I went on serving Mass for the new priest and he was a good guy and didn't do anything to me or for me; he treated me no different than any of the other kids.

  "Then, about a year after Father Joe left, my grandma died." Richy took a deep breath and audibly blew it out. "So I was devastated all over again. And again, I longed to be held by Father Joe and be special again."

  Tears began to flow down Richy's cheeks and I was close to tears myself. That poor little boy. No mom, no dad, and no grandma—and the only person in his world who seemed to love him was that immoral priest.

  "I found out where Father Joe's new parish was and it was about a hundred miles from our town, so I took a bus one day and went there. I got there about three in the afternoon and knocked on the door."

  Richy's face looked like it was being squeezed by some evil monster. He was going through some kind of horrible anguish.

  "What happened? Did he open the door?"

  Richy jumped up and leaned over me, close enough to touch me, if he wished. I didn't move for fear of stopping him from venting his anguishing feelings—something, I felt sure, he badly needed to do. "The bastard glared at me and yelled, and I'll remember the rest of my life every damn word the asshole said, 'Richy Quinn, what the hell are you doing here? You stupid, miserable, little, piece of shit! Get the hell away from me. Get the hell out of here!"

  Richy was so loud, the guard heard him and I saw him look through the door window. Richy's eyes were on me so with my right hand I made the OK gesture and waved. The guard nodded and turned away.

  Richy continued, "'I don't want to see your ugly face ever again. And if you ever come back here, I'll beat the shit out of you and bury your stinking body so goddamn deep, even God won't be able to find it.'" Richy straightened up and added, "I remember every damn word .... The bastard slammed the door in my face." He slumped back down in his chair, put his arms and hands straight out in front of himself on the table, put his head down between his arms and cried.

  I cried with him, and after a few minutes I moved to the chair opposite him and took his hands in mine. We sat there like that for several minutes. I glanced at my watch and realized that we only had a few more minutes together, so I asked, "Richy, have you told Jack Carroll all this?"

  "Yeah, only I didn't scream at him like I just did, Miz Brady. I feel bad for yelling like that, but thank you for not being mad a
t me ... or frightened of me. You aren't, are you?"

  He so sounded like a lonely and scared little boy, I wanted to take him in my arms and hold him, but I only said, "No, Richy, I wasn't mad at you, nor afraid of you. The reason is that I had feelings like that when my mother wouldn't believe that her fourth or fifth husband tried to rape me. I yelled at her just like you did Father Joe. How did Doc, as you call him, take it? And what did he say?"

  He chuckled a bit and said, "When I first saw Doc, I wanted to bash his head in. Ya know he looks so much like Father Joe that I thought he was. I had a bunch of mixed feelings, I thought he was Father Joe and the bastard was put in prison and that was good. Then I found out he wasn't the damn priest, but it took me a while to trust him. You know what helped me trust him?"

  I shook my head, and he went on, "His eyes. Joe had what I call hard eyes, like he wants to hurt you or examine you or judge you; but Doc's eyes are soft, like he wants to be with you, kinda like he wants to be your friend, or, at least, wants to be kind. And, Miz Brady, you've got soft eyes too. Ya know what I mean?"

  "Thanks, Richy, and yes, I do know what you mean. My husband Jerry has eyes like that. I'm sure you will get to meet him. Jack, or Doc, as you call him, said that you thought or knew that Father Joe had molested other children. Do you know any names or where I might find them?"

  Just then, a bell rang, and the guard opened the door and said, "Time's up."

  Richy quickly stood up and said, "I know one girl and she might know others. I'll tell Doc, okay?"

  I nodded and surprisingly, he whispered, "Miz Brady, uh, would you give me a hug?"

  "Absolutely! " I gave him as full a hug as I could.

  The guard yelled, "Time's up."

  Both Richy and I headed for the door with tears running down our cheeks. Richy seemed taller than when he came in to meet me.

  Chapter 3

  JERRY

  I definitely agree with Rebecca that the Missouri State Correctional Facility, aka prison, is not a visitor-friendly place. Just getting through all the gates and doors is a pain in the ass and everything is so drab and cold looking. For me, the worst was the Sallyport experience, having one door clanking shut on us and then finding ourselves locked in a small room before another door clanked open.