“I buried my mother two years ago. She was ninety-four. It’s never easy. Your mother died too young; she had a lot of life left to live.”
Given that she’d had no life when his father had been alive, Donley thought his mother’s cancer had been a particularly cruel fate. He hadn’t set foot in a church since her funeral.
“You look more like your father with each year.” When Donley didn’t respond, Parnisi said, “I meant it as a compliment, Peter. For all his faults, your father was a good-looking man.”
That was like saying Idi Amin had faults but a nice smile. Even so, Donley couldn’t deny he’d inherited his father’s sandy-brown hair and blue eyes.
“The girls used to flock to the gas station on Divisadero where he worked, but not your mother. Your grandmother forbade her; she said it looked cheap. Your father had to find her at a dance.” Parnisi smiled. “She was a sight to behold, your mother.”
Donley wondered if Parnisi also knew his father got his mother pregnant on her eighteenth birthday and married her only after she refused to get an abortion, or whether he knew that his father never forgave either of them for ruining his ambition to move to Hollywood to become the next James Dean.
As Parnisi lowered himself into the leather chair behind his desk, Donley unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat in one of two chairs on the opposite side. Hopefully, the stroll down memory lane was over. The archbishop directed his gaze out a window with a view of the salmon-colored spire of the Mission Dolores church. “I’ve leaned on Lou so many times over the years, I feel lost without him. I practically have to force him to bill me for his time, and even then, he grossly undercharges me.”
Terrific. No wonder Donley was underpaid. “He speaks highly of you,” Donley said.
“He’d better,” Parnisi said, refocusing his attention on Donley. “I saved his butt more than a few times. Did he tell you we were born three houses apart, three months apart?”
A hundred times, Donley thought, but sensing Parnisi needed to reminisce, he shook his head and said, “No.”
“He’s been following me ever since. I darn near convinced him to go into the seminary with me until he met your aunt. God was no match for her. Probably for the better; your uncle’s always had a mouth like a sailor.”
“It would have made for some colorful sermons,” Donley said.
Parnisi smiled. “Indeed, it would have.” Parnisi opened a desk drawer and removed a pipe and a bag of tobacco, placing it on his desk. “You’ve read the Chronicle?”
“I have,” Donley said.
“Father Martin’s arrest is getting national exposure. One of the afternoon talk shows called.” Parnisi nimbly packed the pipe with a pinch of tobacco, flicked a lighter, and sucked the flame into the bowl. The room soon filled with a sweet aroma that reminded Donley of the smell of maple syrup.
Parnisi clenched the pipe between his teeth, looking like something out of Scotland Yard. “I was the one who approved Father Martin’s shelter; I gave it my blessing and approved his mission.”
“It was a good mission,” Donley said. “A lot of kids out there need help.”
Parnisi took a long pull on the pipe before placing the bowl in a tray on his desk. Smoke escaped his nostrils as he spoke. “I received a telephone call from the district attorney. He called it a courtesy call. He wanted me to know the evidence against Father Martin is substantial. Between the lines, I think he’s fishing.”
“For what?”
“He’s trying to find out if I intend to get involved or to stay out of the matter.”
“You’ll want to consider the likelihood of an eventual civil action by the family of the victim,” Donley said. “They’ll look for the deepest pocket.”
“Your uncle would have said exactly the same thing. I won’t run, Peter . . . and I can’t hide. I’m a reflection of this church—I’m too damn big to hide. If someone is going to sue the archdiocese, they’ll know where to find us. Ramsey wants to meet. He says it’s to discuss the evidence, but again, I think he wants to find out if I intend to help Father Martin with legal counsel.”
“I assume that’s why you called,” Donley said.
“I won’t abandon Father Martin, Peter.” Parnisi took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. “I want you to know that after I learned of Lou’s heart attack, I spoke with Larry Carr at Easton, Miller, and Carr. I’ve asked him to meet with Gil Ramsey.”
Donley sat forward. On those rare occasions when Lou had a conflict of interest, the archdiocese sent its work to Larry Carr. “Archbishop, I know you’re concerned because Lou is in the hospital, but I can assure you, I can handle the meeting with the district attorney. I’ve already met with Father Martin at Lou’s request.” Donley left out the specifics of that meeting, since there were none. “So I’m familiar with the charges, and I’ve handled several criminal matters.” Again, he didn’t elaborate. “These things move slowly, Archbishop. I can evaluate the evidence and give you my assessment. With the upcoming holidays, nothing is going to happen quickly. That gives us time to determine the severity of Lou’s condition and when he will be returning to work.”
The archbishop looked unconvinced. “Lou speaks very highly of you and your abilities, Peter. Please don’t misunderstand. But I know Lou handles the criminal work, and I suspect a murder charge is well beyond your experience or expertise.”
Donley knew it had taken Lou forty years to build his practice and felt an obligation not to let Lou lose his biggest client on his watch. “I understand, but that’s not something you need to decide at this moment. If I have to, I can bring in co-counsel.” Donley put a hand on the edge of the big desk. “I’m not your typical third-year lawyer, Archbishop. I’ve had more than forty trials. Let me meet with the DA and hear what he has to say. What is it you’re looking for right at this moment?”
Parnisi sighed. “I need someone who will cut through the political crap and legal rhetoric and tell me what is in Father Martin’s best interest. I’d prefer not to take advice from Gil Ramsey. I’d look out the window if he called to tell me it was raining.”
Donley looked to the window and smiled. “It’s not raining, Archbishop.”
Parnisi smiled.
“I can handle it,” Donley said. “I’ll talk to Ramsey, and I’ll evaluate the evidence. I’ll be as straight with you as I know Lou has always been.”
“I’m not sure that’s a positive. Lou’s roughed me up a bit over the years.” Parnisi sat back, the pipe again clenched between his teeth, considering Donley through the blue-gray haze.
Chapter 8
Gil Ramsey watched Linda St. Claire literally come out of her chair. “You’re going to LWOP a murderer?” she asked, using the acronym for a plea of life without parole.
“I didn’t say we’re going to offer anything.”
Ramsey had politicked on a tough-on-crime platform, and it was well known he did not plea-bargain a first-degree-murder charge. “But given the potential problems with the evidence, it would be irresponsible not to consider alternatives.”
“The press will crucify us,” St. Claire said, now pacing his office.
“No, they’ll crucify us if you don’t get a conviction.”
She bristled. “I’ll convict the son of a bitch. Just get me twelve jurors and a courtroom.”
“Are you going to guarantee that?” He raised a hand to stop her before she could respond. “You better think before you answer that question, because there’s a hell of a lot riding on this . . . for both of us.”
St. Claire turned her back like a chastised nine-year-old. Her desire was to succeed Ramsey as district attorney.
“If the defense accepts life without the possibility of parole, the matter will be over before it—or the press—finds out about the problems with the evidence,” Ramsey said, hating the fact that he was parroting his father’s admonition from earlier that morning. “We’ll all have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and Father Martin goes away for life, wh
ere he can never hurt anyone again.”
St. Claire shook her head. “I can’t even fathom you’d consider making such an offer.”
Ramsey sat forward. “That’s because your ego is clogging your ears. You’re not hearing me. I’m not suggesting we offer anything. That’s exactly why I assigned you to handle this. Your reputation will confirm we intend to seek the death penalty. I’ve just issued a statement to the media hinting that the evidence against Father Martin is substantial. The press won’t crucify us; they’ll help us. Whoever represents Father Martin will get an immediate and strong dose of reality. Father Martin is going to the gas chamber if they don’t do something to prevent it.”
St. Claire stopped pacing and considered him. “You want his attorney to request a deal in exchange for a guilty plea.”
Ramsey shrugged. “One would hope a good lawyer would see the wisdom of it.”
“So, how do we do that? How do we get his attorney to think we’d consider a deal without hinting at it? Nobody in the public defender’s office would think it a possibility.”
“I put in a call to the archbishop this morning and requested a meeting.”
St. Claire sat. “I would have assumed the church would run from this as fast and far as possible.”
“And ordinarily that assumption would be accurate, but as I said, you don’t know Donatello Parnisi.”
“I heard he’s a tough old bird; I didn’t hear he was stupid.”
“Oh, he’s not stupid,” Ramsey said. “But he’s also not your typical church bureaucrat, either. He’s his own man. He’ll see honor in standing behind Father Martin, damn what the eventual financial and political ramifications might be.”
“When is he coming?”
“He’s not. He’s sending Larry Carr.” Ramsey checked his wristwatch. “Within the next twenty minutes.”
“Carr’s not bad,” St. Claire conceded. “I’ve tried a few cases against him before he went into private practice. I thought he handles only white-collar stuff now?”
“He does, but if one of the wealthiest institutions in the world calls, do you turn them down?” Ramsey asked.
“So, how do we play this?”
“We advise Larry the evidence against Father Martin is substantial, but we might be open to considering something so as not to embarrass the church. Carr will be duty bound to bring the information to the archbishop. With all the recent press about priest indiscretions, the archbishop won’t be able to ignore such an opening. He’ll also be duty bound to talk to those in power above him.”
“And if the archbishop doesn’t see the wisdom of it?”
Ramsey turned his gaze to the window. In a few years, there would be a new county jail there, but at the moment, he had a view of the 101 Freeway and, beyond it, the San Francisco skyline. Farther to the east awaited the capitol in Sacramento. “Then you’ll get your shot at Father Martin.”
Donley walked down a light-green marble floor and stepped through double-wide oak doors, the words DISTRICT ATTORNEY stenciled in black block letters on the smoked glass. He asked to speak with Gil Ramsey and provided the woman behind the counter with his name and a business card. The woman made a phone call, repeated Donley’s name twice, and hung up. After a few minutes, a second woman, this one identifying herself as Ramsey’s assistant, met Donley in the lobby and led him through a maze of narrow hallways lined with metal filing cabinets to a corner office.
Ramsey looked very much like the man whose face was bombarding voters on television and plastered around the city on large billboards, sometimes alone and sometimes with his father, the former governor. A pronounced shadow extended from just under Ramsey’s cheekbones to a point somewhere below the collar of his starched white shirt. Ramsey sat with both feet propped on the edge of a large mahogany desk, a document in hand, reading glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. In a chair across the desk sat an attractive blonde woman who also looked familiar, though Donley could not place her. From their surprised expressions, he could tell they’d been expecting Larry Carr. Ramsey finally removed his feet and stood, motioning for Donley to enter with a wave of his hand. “Please, come in.”
The assistant took Donley’s umbrella and placed it in a container near the door.
Ramsey introduced himself. He was taller than Donley had expected, over six feet, with a marathon runner’s physique. Ramsey gestured to the empty chair beside the blonde with the sour face. She’d also stood and now thrust out her hand like she was going to remove Donley’s kidney.
“Linda St. Claire.”
The name and the staccato voice clicked. St. Claire had been a television commentator during a recent high-profile trial of a man accused of kidnapping, raping, and murdering a twelve-year-old girl from a northern county. The trial had attracted national headlines.
“You’ll have to excuse us if we appear a bit caught off guard. We were expecting Larry Carr,” Ramsey said.
Donley smiled. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Do you work with Larry?”
“No, I don’t.” Donley removed two business cards and handed one to each. Ramsey lifted the bifocals dangling from the string around his neck onto the bridge of his nose and held up the card. The eyebrows inched closer together. “You work for Lou Giantelli?” he asked.
“Yes, I do.”
Ramsey lowered the card. “I’ve known Lou for many years. We tried a few cases against each other back in the day. He’s a very capable lawyer.”
Six cases, Donley knew from Lou. And Lou beat you every time.
Lou had once related to Donley how Gil Ramsey had been a young deputy district attorney when Lou did criminal-defense work on a regular basis. Lou described Ramsey as competent but arrogant, a lawyer who failed to learn from his mistakes and repeated them, making him predictable.
“I understand Lou had a heart attack in court yesterday.”
“Yes, he did.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there any word on his condition?”
“The doctors are optimistic he’ll make a full recovery,” Donley said, not about to tell Ramsey anything different.
“I hope that’s true.”
“The archbishop indicated you called to discuss Father Martin.”
Ramsey offered Donley a seat. Donley set his briefcase down and lowered into a chair beside St. Claire. Diplomas and certificates of achievement from various law-enforcement organizations littered the walls, the flow of paper disrupted only by the drooping leaves of a potted plant. A table behind Ramsey displayed what Donley presumed to be family photographs. Ramsey was married to a brunette and had two daughters and a golden retriever. He apparently lived in a Victorian-style house with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge, probably somewhere in Pacific Heights.
Ramsey spun an uncurled paper clip between his thumb and finger like a helicopter blade. “I want to be as up-front as possible with the archbishop, Mr. Peters.”
“It’s Donley. Peter Donley.”
Ramsey stopped twirling the paper clip and sat forward. “We intend to charge Father Martin with first-degree murder.” His tufted caterpillar eyebrows drew together, stray black hairs peeking through the silver. “As you may or may not know, I adamantly support the death penalty, and seek it where I believe appropriate. And I believe it appropriate in this instance. That’s why I’ve assigned Ms. St. Claire to handle this matter. She has a dozen capital-murder convictions.”
Ramsey paused as if expecting Donley to respond. He didn’t. He’d learned from Lou that often the best response was no response. People did not like silence and usually filled it with their own voices.
Free information. Take it when you can get it, Lou liked to say.
Donley also was beginning to understand why neither the archbishop nor Lou cared for Gil Ramsey. The man had an arrogance about him that permeated the entire office. Whereas the archbishop’s framing of his Notre Dame paraphernalia seemed to be for his benefit—to recall a special time in his life—Ramsey’s framed tr
ibute to himself seemed intended for others. Donley also quickly deduced the purpose of the meeting was not so much to share information but to intimidate. Older civil lawyers had tried to take the same tactic. They equated his youth with inexperience and assumed he had never tried a case in his life. They usually ended up regretting that assumption. Here, however, Donley was in uncharted waters when it came to a criminal charge, particularly one this significant. He wasn’t looking to impress. He was hoping only to survive the meeting without embarrassing himself, Lou, or the archbishop.
Ramsey sat back. “As a courtesy to the archbishop—and to Lou—we will provide his counsel with the evidence against Father Martin, and let me tell you, it is significant.”
Donley recognized it to be a hollow gesture. Though he was, to a degree, winging it, he knew the defense was entitled to all of the prosecution’s evidence in a criminal case. “I appreciate that. Is there a time when I might view that evidence and get copies?”
“They’ll be provided to Father Martin’s defense counsel,” St. Claire said. “Are you his defense counsel?”
Something in her tone struck a nerve. “At present, I am,” he said.
Ramsey cut in. “In addition to finding the victim in Father Martin’s shelter and his blood on Father Martin’s clothing as well as on a six-inch, hand-carved letter opener in Father Martin’s office, the technicians recovered blood samples from the priest’s office and the recreation room, and positive shoe imprints and fingerprints. We are confident forensics will confirm the blood on the blade and handle belong to the victim.”
Donley took it all in. “And motive? Do you have a theory about what might have caused a man who devoted his life to helping teenage runaways to suddenly decide to kill one of them?”
Like a magician’s assistant, St. Claire produced a manila envelope encased in a police evidence bag and handed it to Ramsey. Ramsey opened the package without speaking, removed several photographs, also encased in plastic, and, like a poker player laying down a full house, spread them on the edge of the desk. “These were found in Father Martin’s office.”
The 7th Canon Page 6
