Without Warning

by Joanne Fox Phillips

  This is a relief. “So how do you figure out my penance?” I ask. “It’s not all black-and-white, you know. It’s not like I knocked over a gas station. When this backslide started, I thought I was doing the right thing. Then it sort of spiraled into an ethical danger zone.”

  He pauses. “Why did you think you were doing the right thing?”

  So I decide to spill my guts and tell Spiro all about my recent history: being dumped by my ex-husband, Winston, running off to Tulsa and working for the Bishop Group, discovering a talent for corporate espionage, and finally using those skills for personal gain. I continue telling him about my current job in Houston as an internal auditor, a job that I got under false pretenses.

  “An auditor,” Spiro interjects.

  “A fraud specialist,” I elaborate.

  There is an awkward silence as the obvious remarks go unsaid.

  “I exploited building security weaknesses to steal a painting just for the fun of it.” I cringe on my side of the screen as I say this. “It’s really the last phase that’s giving me grief. The only people who know what I’ve done are a big-shot lawyer in Houston and now you.”

  “A priest and a lawyer. That’s good thinking.”

  I stifle a laugh. I don’t want those I’ve kept waiting to think there’s some sort of party going on in here.

  “No, seriously,” I say. “I did some very good things and some selfish, bad things too. Do they cancel each other out, just partially? How does this work, penance-wise?”

  “Tanzie.” Spiro’s tone has shifted, becoming pastoral and fatherly. “It doesn’t matter if you stole $5 or $5 million. What matters is the recognition that you did something that distanced yourself from God, and you want to ask for forgiveness and help to resist temptation in the future. We are all works in progress.”

  “Really.” I hadn’t thought about it that way.

  “God’s forgiveness comes without a price. All the penance is intended to do is make you feel better. If I could offer a single suggestion, Tanzie, this is what it would be: Think less about yourself and more about others. Find the good in all God’s people. If you can do that, then you will find some peace.”

  I immediately feel the relief that comes with an unburdened secret.

  “Thank you, Spiro,” I say. “You’ve really made me feel so much better.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says. “And it looks as if it’s close to noon, if you still wanted to catch up.”

  “Oh—my flight’s at two,” I tell him.

  “You’re leaving today? I was hoping we could visit.”

  “I have a dog at home. I need to get back. Can I call you?”

  “How about I give you a ride to the airport?” Spiro suggests. “We can talk on the way.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I say, as I get up from the kneeler, stiff and achy. I’d honestly prefer to be alone right now, but I don’t say anything to him about it. Offering it up starts now, I think to myself, and I smile.

  In the now-empty church, I find the tall Spiro from my youth standing in his black casque and Roman collar. He is clearly older, but the years have been kind. His hair has migrated southward to a gray beard, but he has the same brown eyes and huge smile. When I hug him, I start crying again.

  “You’re so handsome, Spiro,” I stutter.

  “Why thank you, Tanzie. You look just super. They do fine work in Houston.”

  I laugh to myself, not just at the facelift reference but at Spiro’s use of “super.” It was an expression he always used growing up. My sisters and I thought it completely lame.

  “Actually, it was Atlanta,” I tell him.

  “Here.” Spiro hands me a tissue. “Part of the required supplies in my line of work.”

  “Thanks,” I say, dabbing carefully under my eyes as not to create new wrinkles that I can no longer afford to correct. I look up at Spiro and wonder why we gave him such a hard time when we were teenagers. Every time my mother would start in on what a fantastic catch he would make, we would run screaming from the room, sometimes right in front of him. Now as I stand here, I wonder if I wouldn’t have been better off with someone so sweet rather than opting for rich and powerful.

  “I remember that you O’Leary girls used to tease me all the time,” he says, smiling. “I just wanted you to know that it’s okay with me.”

  How did he know I was thinking about that? “If you can read minds, please tell me now, Spiro,” I say. “It will save me a lot of embarrassment.”

  We head south on 280, and the traffic is mercifully light. I have no luggage, and it’s Saturday afternoon, so I figure it shouldn’t take long to get through security. The parish-issued Camry is bare bones but clean, and old age has made Spiro a cautious driver, unlike the hot-rodder I remember from years ago.

  “So, you’re an auditor now,” Spiro says.

  “Fraud specialist,” I repeat.

  “Right,” Spiro nods. “In more ways than one.” He laughs.

  “Ha ha, Spiro,” I say. “I’m done with that. Really, today it starts anew for me. Clean as a whistle.”

  “Do you perform investigations?”

  “Sometimes. If someone calls the helpline and makes an allegation, they usually send me out to do the investigation. Mostly, though, I help the other auditors.”

  “So, do you work for the government? I’m not sure I understand what auditors other than IRS agents do.”

  “I work for CoGenCo. It’s a huge energy conglomerate. We have power plants all over the globe, as well as a few other side businesses. We own a wind energy company right here in San Francisco, actually. It’s called Westwind. Ever heard of it?”

  “I think so,” he says, biting his lip while he thinks. “Yes, maybe. One of our parishioners might work for them. What’s a helpline?”

  It’s an odd question, given the circumstances. I would have expected the conversation to have turned to my sisters by now, and I begin to wonder whether Spiro has some sort of hidden purpose behind all these questions about my job.

  “It’s a post–Enron thing,” I tell him. “Public companies are required to have some sort of way for people to make confidential allegations about corporate misconduct. We call ours a helpline. It makes it seem more Dr. Phil than Batman.”

  Spiro looks confused by my explanation. “Like whistleblowers?”

  “Uh huh. But even if you just have a question about something ethical, you can call and talk with a third party. Then they can relay your concern to our compliance group to follow up.”

  “It’s sort of like confession, then,” Spiro says.

  “I never thought of it that way, but I guess it is—sort of. But unlike confession, the caller isn’t generally the person who did something wrong—it’s someone else ratting that person out.”

  Spiro nods.

  “Typically, most of the complaints are employee-related—you know, ‘my coworkers are rude,’ or smelly, or both. Those get sent to Human Resources for follow-up. Sometimes, though, we get allegations of fraud. That’s when I get involved.”

  “Do you ever work on projects outside your company?” he asks casually.

  And here it comes. There is no such thing as a free lunch or a free ride to the airport. Clearly Father Cosmo needs a favor.

  It has been my experience that non-Catholics do not fully appreciate the chutzpah, for lack of a better word, of nuns and priests. In their minds, their life of sacrifice and devotion means that everyone else should be so grateful that they enthusiastically grant any request a priest or nun makes, no matter how poorly timed or invasive. In fact, they should show appreciation for being asked. Anything less would be considered selfish, a classic Catholic sin. I remember even my mother, the model of Catholic servitude, complaining to me as a kid about priests. “They never know when to stop asking,” she said.

  “No, we’re strictly internal,” I say, hoping to nip the conversation in the bud.

  Spiro says nothing, and I stare out the window at the Daly City land
scape, which hasn’t changed too much since I left in the early eighties. The ugly houses are still there—they just cost more.

  “I was wondering if you could perhaps put your skills to use for me,” Spiro says finally. “But I hate to ask you now.” He doesn’t wait for any response from me before he starts describing the problem. “I volunteer at a homeless shelter in the Tenderloin—St. Benedict’s. Homelessness is a growing problem here in the Bay Area, you know. I can’t provide any specifics, but I have reason to believe that someone is stealing from us.”

  “Why are you suspicious, Spiro?” I ask. Maybe this will be a quick request, I think—perhaps he just needs free advice, something that I can give him in the remaining few miles. Miracles can happen.

  Spiro looks straight ahead and shifts around in his seat. His body language suggests discomfort. “The whole diocese is strapped right now,” he explains. “We really need to expand St. Benedict’s; there is so much need. And yet there never seems to be enough money, even though we are such a popular charity here in the city. I spoke with Archbishop Mauriello about this,

  but he really wasn’t interested in pursuing the matter. I think he’s worried about bad publicity. We’re just getting back on our feet after the pedophile thing, you know.”

  “Who takes care of the accounts, Spiro? That’s usually a good starting point.”

  “See, that’s just the sort of thing I need to know,” he says excitedly. “You know just what to do and what questions to ask. I wonder—is there any way you can devote some time to helping me?”

  I stare straight ahead for a moment. “Is this my official penance, Spiro?”

  “Of course not, Tanzie,” he says. “I just thought I’d ask you.”

  “Surely there’s a parishioner out there who’s a CPA,” I suggest.

  “That might not be enough—there’s a little more to the story than I’ve told you,” he says. “But if you can’t swing it, I understand completely.”

  As he must know, I feel like a total shit at the moment. “Look, I’m not saying I can’t do it,” I say. “I just can’t give you a definite answer right now. Does that make sense? I have a job and a dog.” This seems weak, and I look at my watch. It’s a quarter to one. I am overcome with the Catholic guilt I thought I had shed years ago.

  He waits patiently for me to respond.

  “I may be able to take vacations or something like that,” I plead. “What time frame are you looking at?”

  “It’s urgent, I’m afraid.” Spiro pauses a bit to collect his thoughts. “Look, Tanzie, I’ve put you in an awful spot. I want you to feel wonderful about God’s grace, not bad because I asked for something you are unable to give.”

  The conversation ends as we pull up to Terminal F. Spiro gets out of the driver’s side to give me a proper hug goodbye. I kiss his cheek.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise, Spiro. I really do want to help you.”

  “Super, Tanzie. Thank you. Stay close to God.”

  I decide not to tell him I’m sort of on the fence about the whole God thing. But after all I’ve done, turning down a priest’s—and a childhood friend’s—request has removed what bit of relief I found from my confession. I start wondering what will come of it: Will the plane crash? Will my dog get run over? Will someone in Tulsa figure out what I did and come after me? I feel absolutely awful. Didn’t I just decide that I would put others ahead of myself? Wasn’t that my path to redemption? In less than an hour, I’m back to my own selfish ways.

  No, I tell myself. I am going to change, and I am going to change now.

  “Park the car and go into the terminal with me,” I say. “I’m going to see if there’s a later flight.”

  “Are you sure? Super, Tanzie!” Spiro beams. “This is super.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Saturday Afternoon

  The only flight available leaves SFO at 6:00 p.m. and arrives just after midnight. I have a doggy door, so Rocky should be fine, if not a little hungry. Perhaps there are some doggy souls in purgatory who might benefit.

  Spiro and I find a Japanese place outside security and settle in with some sushi. “My treat,” I say, celebrating my new chapter as a selfless person. “Okay, now tell me about this homeless shelter program.”

  “St. Benedict’s was founded by Archbishop Mauriello in 2009, when he moved out here from New Jersey after receiving his appointment as archbishop of San Francisco,” Spiro begins. “I think he ran a similar program back East, although on a smaller scale. As I said, homelessness is a major problem in San Francisco these days, Tanzie—honestly, I don’t know how anyone can afford to live here anymore. Add mental illness and substance abuse to the high rents, and it can become impossible for people to get back on their feet.” Spiro puts some wasabi paste on his salmon nigiri and takes a bite, nodding with approval. “There’s a fish fry after Mass on the first Friday of each month that anyone can come to. We take donations, but they’re not required. We want our residents to feel like they’re part of the community.”

  “Maybe that’s where all the money’s going,” I suggest.

  “No.” Spiro shakes his head. “All that food is donated by Mr. Driscoll—you know, who owns the grocery stores? It’s not expensive, but it’s a good draw.”

  “Do you get any federal or state funds?” I ask.

  “Oh no, it’s strictly private funding. There’s an annual ball and a golf tournament at the Olympic Club for raising money, and then we get corporate gifts as well. It’s quite a popular charity here in San Francisco.”

  “Does the charity have regular audits?”

  Spiro looks uneasy. “I’m not really sure, Tanzie.”

  “You should probably find out.”

  Spiro nods, takes out a pen from his breast pocket, and makes a note on a spare paper napkin.

  “You should also find out what information they have to report to the archdiocese, or any regulatory agencies,” I tell him.

  Again he makes a note on the napkin. “What else?”

  “You should get copies of the bank statements.”

  “Why?”

  “So you can see where the money came from and where it went,” I explain patiently.

  “Okay. Super. This is perfect. How do I get the bank statements?”

  I give an eye roll. These investigations seem so intuitive to me, I forget that an outsider can become lost in the process.

  “Why don’t we do it this way,” I say, as I smile at Spiro and take the napkin and pen from his hands. “I’m going to give you a list of paperwork I want you get, or try to get. I’ll also give you some questions to research.”

  “Super, Tanzie. Thank you.”

  I put the list together: financial statements, account reconciliations, general ledgers, and the like. Six napkins later, Spiro has his marching orders.

  “So, what was the something else?” I ask.

  “What?” Spiro looks confused.

  “In the car you said there was more to it than just a gut feeling that money was going missing. You said this was urgent. Nothing you’ve told me seems that urgent, Spiro.”

  Spiro blushes. “It is urgent, but I can’t tell you why. I’m sorry, Tanzie. Please understand.”

  I have no idea why Spiro is being so coy. Has he overheard someone planning a heist, some scheme that will render the shelter penniless by week’s end? My experience with fraud is different. Fraud is slow and steady: a little here, a little more there. A slow trickle of diverted payments small enough to fly under the radar of whatever oversight is in place. But then I remember my own theft from the Bishop Group in Tulsa—there was nothing slow or steady about that. So I decide to concede the urgency point and respect Spiro’s silence on the matter. I am here to help, after all.

  We spend the next hour or so catching up on the last thirty-some-odd years. Eventually we come to that awkward pause in the conversation when there is not much else to say.

  “When can you come back out here?” Spiro asks, breakin
g the silence.

  “When can you get all the information?” I ask in reply.

  “I’ll get started right away. Archbishop Mauriello will be at the rectory for dinner tonight. I’ll ask him where I can get a hold of these documents.”

  He gathers up all of the napkins and puts them in the interior pocket of his black jacket. “Can you come out on Monday or Tuesday to get started?” he asks.

  An unintentional Are you kidding? expression must have shown on my face, but I immediately regret it. I don’t know how I’m going to manage this, but I am going to help Spiro no matter what it takes.

  “Please? This sounds very exciting, Tanzie.”

  “I’m in, Spiro. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll see you Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Super.”

  Spiro gives me a bear hug, and I head into the security line.

  The TSA must be headed by Catholics, because the security line bears a strong resemblance to my perception of purgatory: It’s long and uncomfortable, and you’re totally at the mercy of others to get through to the other side. I mill around the terminal and get to the gate just as the last passengers are boarding. Although I paid a huge premium for my impulsive same-day trip, I am stuck in steerage with the folks who Pricelined their way on board. My 1,500 bucks bought me the middle seat across from the rear bathroom on a four-hour flight. I edge through the privileged first-class group enjoying their pre-departure beverages and am reminded of my former life, when I took such things for granted.

  I make my way down the narrow aisle to the very end. The two portly seatmates are visibly disappointed when I show up, dashing any hopes of a little extra room. I squeeze my way over the fellow on the aisle, plopping into the middle seat. They have each claimed an armrest, so I tuck my elbows into my sides, smiling at my opportunity to offer it up. I was hoping that my commitment to help Spiro might have manifested itself in more comfortable travel, but perhaps even the Almighty has no power over the airlines.