Mortal Sins: Sex, Crime, and the Era of Catholic Scandal

by D'Antonio, Michael

  Through the fall and into the winter of 1986, Jeff Anderson and his investigator, Bob Bosse, continued finding and interviewing witnesses, including nuns at schools and parishes where Adamson had worked, and added to their requests for documents. This process uncovered evidence that at least nine boys had been molested by Adamson during his career as a priest. They also discovered that a psychiatrist in Rochester, who had seen Adamson in 1967, had informed the Diocese of Winona that that his condition was “incurable.” Matched against Adamson’s employment record, which showed him assigned to jobs where he would work with altar boys and come into regular contact with other children for another seventeen years, this evidence was particularly compelling.

  Equally compelling were two memos, one dated February 1981 and one dated March 1982, that described in rather exasperated terms the conditions under which Adamson would be permitted to function as a priest. Both declared “no youth contact” and required him to continue getting psychological care. The second of these documents was signed by Adamson and Archbishop Roach, and was titled “Special Agreement Between Archbishop Roach and Reverend Thomas Adamson.” Although this document was intended to stop the criminal behavior of a priest who was sexually violating children, it resembled nothing more than the kind of contract a parent might draw up to bind a misbehaving boy to his promise of improved behavior.

  As Anderson’s investigation and discovery request revealed embarrassing secrets and threatened them with scandal, the bishops carried on in public as if nothing unusual was happening. In December Archbishop Roach publicly criticized Minneapolis city councilwoman Barbara Carlson for announcing that she would give her unmarried children and their friends condoms for Christmas. The archbishop said that because of Carlson “in Minneapolis the angels had to cry.” Carlson, a Catholic, said she was far more concerned about unwanted pregnancies and AIDS than angels. “The archbishop may want to think everyone is virtuous and they’re saving themselves for the holy sacrament of matrimony,” she added. “But that’s a delusion.”

  On Christmas morning the Minneapolis Star Tribune published an interview with the archbishop that allowed him to discuss his spiritual life at length. He explained that he began every day with a 6:30 A.M. walk during which he prayed, and he credited the serenity prayer of Alcoholics Anonymous for helping him maintain sobriety, a requirement that arose after his conviction on charges of driving while intoxicated in 1985. The serenity prayer advises people to fix problems they can fix and recognize those they are powerless to address. “The very important part of that is the wisdom to know the difference,” noted Roach. “I apply that many times in the day, to many things in the day, to the things that I do. Many things I just can’t fix, and I tend to be a fixer. If I get battered often enough with enough things I can’t fix, but I think I should, I’m going to be burst apart.”

  As the Christmas season passed and 1987 arrived, Bishops Roach and Watters moved to fix the Lyman problem, authorizing their attorneys to make a settlement offer. When Jeff Anderson took the call he was stunned by the amount—$1 million—and by the single requirement attached to the cash. As he later recalled it, Bill Hull, who represented the Diocese of Winona said, “I’m authorized to make your client an offer to $500,000 but they’ll go to a million. Will you take it please? Your client will, of course, sign the usual confidentiality agreement.”

  Anderson was surprised by the number. He had never reached a million-dollar settlement in any of his previous cases. He quickly calculated that, depending on expenses and other variables, about $350,000 of it would go to his firm, which his partner would surely appreciate. He then took a deep breath and considered the “usual confidentiality agreement.” He had never entertained a request for such an agreement. And if there was such a thing as a “usual” agreement that settled this kind of claim, then the Church must have settled and kept secret many previous cases. A secret settlement would mean no one would be alerted to the possibility that priests could sexually abuse children. Anderson spoke before thinking. “Signing will make us as bad as your client,” he said.

  Hull ignored the insult and reminded Anderson that he had a duty to take the offer to his client. Considering the fact that Lyman was jobless, drifting between his parents’ home and the street, and selling plasma for the cash, a million dollars might be more than enough to overcome his moral outrage. Anderson called his client and set up a meeting at his parents’ house the next day. He couldn’t sleep at all during the night, considering how much Lyman needed the money and how wrong it would be to keep a settlement secret.

  When the two men met, Anderson told Lyman to sit down. Before he spoke Anderson shed a few tears, partly out of exhaustion and partly out of fear for other child victims. He then told his client about the million dollars and the secrecy agreement, and finished by saying that he wanted to reject the offer on moral grounds and make a public filing of the lawsuit. With this strategy they could alert the community to the problem of clergy sexual abuse and cover-up inside the Church. Of course a trial would also bring the possibility of total defeat, Anderson had to add.

  “But as your attorney I’d advise you to turn them down, file the lawsuit, and make this thing public.”

  Lyman didn’t respond right away and his silence made Anderson tremble with anxiety. Finally Lyman said, “Do it, but do it fast before I change my mind.”

  Anderson left the meeting thinking about who he would call, and in what order. First would come the Winona Diocese’s attorney, so that the offer would be rejected in a clear and formal way. Then he would contact every reporter he knew to tell them he was about to file a newsworthy suit at the Ramsey County Courthouse. He then left his office, complaint in hand, determined to file it with the clerk before Greg Lyman could call back and claim the $1 million.

  As Anderson expected, the press was very interested in the suit and it was reported on local TV news broadcasts and in both the St. Paul and Minneapolis dailies. When asked to answer reporters’ questions, the bishops declined, although they issued a statement that lamented “the damage done to the young man” and noted how the Church was “growing in its awareness of the problems of sexual abuse.”

  Although they intended to sound like humble and caring pastors, the churchmen immediately ran into the paradox in the competing roles they had to play. Catholics expected them to act like true Christians, which required them to honestly confront all sin, including their own, and to protect their flocks. However, they were also defendants in a high-stakes lawsuit that threatened the finances and reputation of an institution they had vowed to protect. A creatively wary defense attorney might even imagine ways that the Lyman suit could lead to criminal charges against both the perpetrator Adamson and the bishops who could be viewed as his co-conspirators in covering up his assaults.

  On the day after they stood as kindly pastors, the bishops seized the role of defendants. Bishop Watters went back to reporters to deny “all allegations of negligence, fault, or wrongdoing” on the part of the Diocese of Winona. Joan Bernet, spokeswoman for the St. Paul diocese, said officials there had no knowledge of Adamson’s criminal past when he came to work there in 1976. As for crimes committed after his arrival, which were reported to the Church, Bernet said the law did not require bishops to notify police, and parents had requested that no report be made to the authorities.

  Bernet was technically correct in describing the bishops’ status as clergymen, but as the ultimate authorities over Catholic schools they may have been required to report abuse as educators, who had been so-called mandated reporters since the early 1970s. Across the nation lobbyists for the Catholic Church and other denominations had fought being covered by such “mandated reporter” laws, arguing they would intrude on religious practices like confession. In Minnesota and most states they had succeeded, and these exemptions meant that bishops might hide a priest’s assault on a child and escape being prosecuted themselves. Of course nothing prohibited a bishop from urging others to go to the p
olice in order to protect other children from a predator, but in Adamson’s case, and many hundreds that would follow, this option was never taken.

  Rather than pursue the facts in hopes of stopping a possible predator, the bishops in Minnesota had sometimes actively avoided knowing the truth. Fr. James Fitzpatrick, who served in Winona, would testify that his superiors had ordered him to ignore early complaints against Adamson. Without real investigation, reports remained unfounded and could thereby be dismissed. In their letters, they communicated so obliquely that even under the pressure of discovery orders from a state court, they could continue to claim they hadn’t known key facts. As the bishops shifted from expressing concern for the victim to denying responsibility, Jeff Anderson stood coolly on the sidelines, offering no quotes for the reporters who rang his phone. The filing spoke for itself, and in their wildly swinging struggle to respond the bishops accomplished more for his client in the court of public opinion than Anderson ever could. The publicity also inspired other families who had been traumatized by predatory priests to contact Anderson.

  Three days after he filed the Lymans’ papers, Anderson heard from several young adults who said they had also been abused by priests. One single mother called to say that her teenage son had been molested by Thomas Adamson. John Doe, as he would be called due to his age, had followed a path that was similar to Greg Lyman’s. Lonesome and struggling in school, he was befriended by Adamson, who then sexually assaulted him. Disturbed by what had happened, he became withdrawn and even more isolated. He too was caught committing a burglary and it was this arrest that prompted him to reveal what Adamson had done.

  In his first meetings with John Doe and his mother, Anderson was struck by how similar the boy was to Greg Lyman. Lawyers learn that they never get “perfect” clients free of their own troubles, but the pattern of victim-turned-perpetrator was truly remarkable. As Anderson was coming to know, sexual abuse often echoed in his clients’ lives in ways that would shock people who had never investigated this kind of crime. Much of what Anderson discovered came from a fast-growing body of literature on the subject. He also received an informal education from various experts he retained. In Gregory Lyman’s case he had hired a psychologist named Susan Phipps-Yonas, Ph.D., to evaluate his client so that he could gain some understanding of the damage done by Thomas Adamson.

  When Phipps-Yonas earned her doctorate in 1978, her profession considered incest almost nonexistent and the long-term effects of child sexual abuse were poorly understood. By the mid-1980s new research and her own work with hundreds of cases referred by local courts had persuaded her that all forms of sexual abuse were far more common than she once believed. She also noted that individual victims reacted to sexual violation in very different ways. Some appeared to show little negative effects. Others were devastated by shame and feelings of betrayal and wound up enduring lifelong struggles with depression, paranoia, substance abuse, and other symptoms. Determining exact cause and effect was impossible, of course. But she saw so much suffering in victims that she became certain that sexual abuse could lead to depression, paranoia, drug and alcohol addiction, and even suicide.

  Phipps-Yonas saw Gregory Lyman nine times and reviewed his medical files and court record. She discovered that Gregory was adopted by the Lyman family when he was five months old, and he had begun life in a family troubled by violence. It would defy credulity to say that a child born in rough circumstances was somehow doomed to be a victim of sexual abuse and become a perpetrator himself. However, in the course of their careers, both the psychologist and the attorney learned to expect disturbing and distressing surprises, including victims who had been abused by acquaintances or relatives before being assaulted by priests. In almost every case of clergy abuse Anderson had to deal with what he called “the ordinary chaos” of trauma victims and their families. As Dr. Phipps-Yonas would explain to him, sexual predators often pursue troubled children as victims in the same way that armed robbers target banks. Lonely, isolated, and depressed boys and girls who come from chaotic families yearn for attention and are more vulnerable to being targets of sexual violence. Since these same children often have trouble in school, or with the police, they have a record of problems that make them less credible should they ever complain. The same is true for parents who may not supervise their children closely because they are overwhelmed by life or suffering from a psychological disorder or addiction. These mothers and fathers have trouble recognizing a son or daughter’s suffering.

  In the case of John Doe, Anderson noted that the victim and his mother were both active alcoholics. Relying on what he had learned in his own aborted rehab stint and from his friend Grant Hall, he had pressed them to join Alcoholics Anonymous. Eventually this kind of intervention became routine for Anderson, who estimated that about 80 percent of his male clients had problems with drugs or alcohol or both. Arguing “I can’t help you unless you are willing to help yourself,” he would require them to seek help as a condition of their working relationship. Invariably his clients chose to enter treatment or join AA in order to continue working with Anderson and pursuing their cases.

  At the time when he counseled John Doe and his mother to get help, Jeffrey Anderson’s own alcoholism was practically roaring with strength. On many nights he went to a bar or club after work where he lost track of time in all the laughter, flirting, and storytelling. Having consumed enough alcohol to overcome his well-developed tolerance, he was nevertheless able to drive the twenty miles to Stillwater on instinct. His skills were so sharp that he was able to keep his car going in a straight line, but speed was another matter entirely. Once, after a party, he was stopped by a police officer who clocked his car going over eighty miles per hour. Like many, the cop who stopped Anderson knew him and liked him. He let him go.

  In Stillwater he often drank until he fell asleep. When this happened his dreams became a torture chamber. On one night he found himself lying naked on a cold stainless steel table in a white tiled operating room. Bright lights overhead practically blinded him and he could hear the sound of running water. Suddenly a surgeon wearing a medical mask appeared beside the table, scalpel in hand, announcing the start of an autopsy. Although his heart beat wildly and his mind screamed with fear, Anderson was unable to move or make a sound as the knife began to cut.

  This night’s terror episode ended as Anderson shouted, leaped out of bed, and smashed through the glass of the French doors of the bedroom he shared with Julie. He awakened, terrified and trembling, with blood streaming from his hands and arms. Anderson’s parents, who happened to be staying overnight in Stillwater, raced to see what was happening and found Julie comforting their son as he emerged fully from the dream and realized where he was, and what was happening. He explained to his parents that he had experienced this kind of vivid and disturbing dream before and that they were probably the product of stress and excess fatigue, and since they invariably passed, there was nothing to worry about. He was not convincing. Common sense suggested something deeper and more serious than simple stress and fatigue had caused Anderson’s terrifying dreams. And who was to say that the next night’s terror wouldn’t leave him with more serious injuries?

  Julie tried to tell her husband to beware of the stress he faced in his work. No one who immerses himself in the trauma suffered by victims of sexual abuse emerges unscathed. As several victims and their families came to his office Anderson listened to them tell stories of assault, shame, and betrayal that filled him with anger and concern. His clients were exceedingly wary people who could drift to the edge of paranoia. They would telephone him to demand reassurances, accuse him of ulterior motives, or dismiss him as their lawyer only to hire him back in an hour, a day, or a week. Understanding that he couldn’t expect their automatic trust, Anderson took every one of their calls, listened carefully, and tried to keep his clients on an even keel. Invariably the fears and anxiety would subside and the clients were reassured, but the process would consume valuable hours and even
more valuable energy.

  The work of managing so many traumatized clients would drain anyone, but Anderson insisted to Julie he wasn’t much affected. Although he might not say it out loud, deep down he believed that he wasn’t like other people. A workout fanatic, he thought that his sessions in the gym and a naturally resilient constitution protected him from stress. Julie could see in his drinking and his nightmares that this wasn’t true. But given their age difference and his argument skills, she couldn’t get him to agree. His drinking was not out of control, he would say, because it hadn’t affected his work. Indeed, he was functioning at such a high level—taking on new cases, pushing them forward effectively—that this “proved” that nothing was wrong. After arguing to the point of exhaustion Julie would back down, but when she was alone her fears would bring her to tears.

  * * *

  Ten days after filing the Lyman complaint Anderson went back to the courthouse with the John Doe lawsuit. The papers noted that the victim was thirteen when Fr. Adamson first molested him in 1982. At that time Adamson was working at a church called Risen Savior in the suburb of Apple Valley and, according to Anderson’s filing, he developed a “big brother” relationship with the boy. The crimes against John Doe were relatively recent but still outside the three-year statute of limitations, which meant that Adamson would once again escape arrest on criminal charges. However, it helped Anderson advance his claim that the Church had knowingly harbored a serial offender.

  The St. Paul Pioneer Press gave the news of the lawsuit front page display and ran a separate article that explained, in detail, Anderson’s claim that higher officials knew Adamson was a sexual predator long before his clients were abused and nevertheless allowed him to hold jobs that brought him into contact with children. All but forced to respond, the Church broke a two-week silence as the chancellor of the diocese of St. Paul called the press to the chancery. Bishop Robert Carlson said his boss, Archbishop John Roach, didn’t know the truth about Adamson until he confessed in 1980.