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

by D'Antonio, Michael

  Struggling to explain how they could have allowed a man charged with molesting children to work with them so closely, church leaders offered the kind of convoluted explanation that would be the hallmarks of the hierarchy’s arguments in hundreds of cases to come. They would say they had relied on psychological experts who had assured them that sexual offenders could be controlled. They also claimed they were denied key information because of doctor-patient confidentiality. Of course, the psychological community was not in agreement when it came to sex offenders and the majority of experts warned that most could not be thoroughly “cured.”

  The irony of the Church hiding behind mental health experts was evident to anyone who knew about Catholicism’s historical rejection of psychology and psychiatry. Many American church leaders, most notably the famous archbishop/broadcaster Fulton Sheen, had long made a point of insisting that faith and religion were superior to anything that might be offered by therapists, doctors, or analysts. In the 1950s and 1960s Sheen frequently criticized what he called “Freudianism,” arguing that it was a way to “deny any personal responsibility,” and he repeatedly taught people to apply willpower and prayer to ease mental suffering.

  As a whole, the American bishops rejected whatever wisdom psychology might offer to clergy when they chose to ignore the 1972 Kennedy and Heckler report. Ironically enough, this document’s existence meant that anyone filing a lawsuit alleging improper conduct by a priest could claim that Church officials had been forewarned of a problem. However, claims against individual priests and their dioceses would require more specific evidence. In the John Doe case this proof resided in “secret archives” that contained sensitive information and could only be accessed by the highest officials in a diocese. In St. Paul the archive was in the basement of the chancery. Two keys existed. One was kept by Roach. The other was held by his second-in-command.

  The secret archives intrigued Jeffrey Anderson almost as much as the conflict between Bishop Watters of Winona and Archbishop Roach in St. Paul, which was revealed in letters between them. At issue was the question of how much Roach knew about Adamson at the time he was sent to St. Paul. In the letters Watters suggested that he had informed Roach fully—giving him information on charges that Adamson abused minors—at the time of the priest’s transfer. Roach insisted that he was told Adamson “had a problem with homosexuality” but not that he had sexually assaulted minors.

  This conflict came to a head when Roach drove to meet with Watters in private at a convent halfway between their home cities in the Mississippi River town of Frontenac. Designed and built to resemble an Austrian castle, Villa Maria was a looming stone building topped by red tile roofs. The entrance to the convent was flanked by stone towers five stories high. Inside the bishops found a small conference room where they spent ninety minutes hashing out their differences. In the end Watters’ recollections changed. He agreed that in fact he had failed to inform Roach of the true extent of Thomas Adamson’s problem. It was around this time that he also decided that he would leave his office, even though he was four years shy of the usual retirement age of seventy-five.

  Roach’s description of the meeting at Villa Maria made it sound like they had conspired to get their stories straight. It also highlighted the trouble they might encounter if the case went before a court. After Roach’s deposition, the two dioceses and their lawyers made another push for a settlement. With the Lymans’ complaints against Adamson now out in the open, Anderson and his clients were satisfied that the community had been alerted to the problem of predator priests and a measure of justice had been achieved in the shaming of the Church. They accepted the $1 million payment offered, which would be paid to Greg in small sums as an annuity. But Greg refused to sign any agreement to keep the settlement confidential and the facts of the case were made public.

  * * *

  The Lyman settlement made headlines and cemented Anderson’s status as a lawyer who would fight the Church. It also announced, to certain of his friends, that he had shifted his thinking when it came to sex. A former client, Tim Campbell, who worked for the local gay newspaper and once regarded Anderson as a hero, was disappointed. On a cold winter day he encountered his old friend Anderson walking down one of the narrow skyways that connect the upper stories of buildings in downtown St. Paul. Campbell was delivering papers. Anderson was on his way to a meeting.

  “I see you’ve changed sides,” said Campbell with a sharpness in his voice. When Anderson asked him to explain, Campbell said that Anderson was no longer “pro sexual” and that he had “gone for the money” by filing suits based against the Church.

  Campbell didn’t think that priests like Adamson were doing something that was, by definition, always wrong. He believed that some teenagers were capable of consenting to having sex with an older man and that a certain hysteria was being created by parents who overreacted to harmless sexual episodes and lawyers who sought to profit from suits.

  The comments and Campbell’s attitude caught Anderson by surprise. After an icy parting he thought about the exchange. Society as a whole had become less tolerant and more punishing, at least when it came to public policy and sexual behavior. In years gone by, Anderson would have likely agreed to represent a gay priest who had been arrested looking for sex in a public washroom. But that kind of case, which would have involved a voluntary arrangement between strangers, was different from one in which a trusted pastor uses his position to manipulate a twelve- or thirteen-year-old into repeated sexual encounters. People like Campbell could say what they would about harmless sex, Anderson thought, but when a priest violates a minor sexually, “it is bound to fuck the kid up.”

  Given the formidable power of the Catholic Church, Anderson didn’t feel any less radical in his role as an attorney for young people who had been raped than he did when he defended gay men rousted out of a bathhouse. As far as he could tell, predator priests used their status and authority to commit crimes and the institutional Church brought its power to bear against individuals who complained. And so what if these cases brought big paydays? The money freed Anderson from financial worries and financed the aggressive pursuit of new cases.

  The potential for more big settlements grew as every week brought Anderson calls from adults who had been victimized as children and from parents who said their sons and daughters had been abused by both Catholic clergy and Protestant ministers. Some of these cases fell outside the three-year limit set by Minnesota’s statute of limitations and the Church could use this factor to deflect a claim of simple negligence. However, if Anderson could show the Church had acted recklessly, or committed an intentional fraud, he wouldn’t be bound by the strict terms of the statute of limitations. He could also push for payments far in excess of a $400,000 limit the state legislature had placed on claims of emotional distress caused by simple negligence.

  In tort law, where the courts settle disputes over everything from car accidents to defective medical devices, plaintiffs’ lawyers routinely search for the kind of evidence that would elevate a case above simple negligence. When a court recognizes recklessness and fraud it says, in effect, that the defendants may have committed a more serious offense, both morally and materially. If found guilty, defendants who commit fraud or act recklessly may be required to pay punitive damages far in excess of the penalties assessed in cases of negligence. A Catholic equivalent might be seen in the distinction between venial and mortal sins. The former is slight and readily forgiven. The latter is serious and requires deliberate and profound repentance.

  A bishop who knew, or should have known, that a priest posed a threat to children but left him in ministry could be considered reckless. If he worked with others to deflect complaints and cover up accusations, then he may have also conspired to commit fraud upon every family in a parish. No legal scholarship would be required to determine that a bishop or church that allowed a boy or girl to be victimized under these circumstances broke an important trust. It would be obvious to anyone.


  If Anderson could bring a case involving recklessness or fraud before the members of a jury, he might well persuade them to send a message to priests and bishops everywhere in the form of a big punitive damages award. Among the many victims who came to Anderson in the wake of the Lyman case, one stood out. The John Doe who was abused by Fr. Thomas Adamson after higher church officials had heard previous complaints seemed to be a victim of both recklessness and fraud.

  For the Church, words like “fraud” and “recklessness” brought not only financial risk but also greater public scandal. If Anderson was involved, there would be no way for the Church to escape this shame because he would make every filing public. This step was part of a process he was crafting into a standard operating procedure. The Anderson method would begin with long interviews of victims and their loved ones. He would then confirm the basic facts with his own investigation and file suit to begin the discovery process. With or without Anderson’s encouragement, news reporters would invariably learn about the complaint against the Church. Because previous cases had established the fact of clergy abuse, the press no longer shied away from covering the issue. Instead, abuse claims against supposedly celibate men of God became a staple of the news business and the resultant scandal—something the hierarchy dreaded—was inevitable.

  Anderson’s use of the press was by no means unique. Lawyers have long sought to influence justice by molding public opinion. In this case, Anderson wasn’t trying to affect a specific jury. He was, instead, trying to get the public accustomed to the idea that a priest just might molest, assault, and even rape a child and his higher-ups might conceal the crime and allow the assaults to continue. These concepts were so alien to most people that only repeated and regular coverage of the issue could open enough minds that Anderson might win a jury trial, should one come along. Toward this end, he cultivated local reporters and when calls came in from out-of-town papers and broadcast outlets he agreed to be interviewed whenever asked.

  One of the most comprehensive reports written at this time was published by the Knight Ridder News Service and appeared in papers across America. Reporter Carl Cannon noted the pattern Anderson had found repeated in twenty-five dioceses where church officials decided against reporting assaults on children by priests and transferred molesters to parishes where they continued to have access to children. To support his articles Cannon had researched cases from coast to coast. He had also found Thomas Doyle, who gave him the report he had written with Ray Mouton and Michael Peterson. Doyle said he had concrete evidence on about two hundred priest abusers and predicted more scandal to come.

  “I got a call from a nun today in Missouri who’s got a priest doing this stuff to kids,” he told Cannon. “She can’t get anywhere with the bishop. She doesn’t know where in the Church to turn.”

  The St. Paul Pioneer Press published Cannon’s investigation and added a sidebar stressing the local angles on the story. Jeff Anderson was featured prominently and the report prompted more calls from people who had been abused by priests. Most had never shared their stories with anyone because they remained attached to the Church, blamed themselves for the crimes, and feared no one would believe them. Those who did act typically contacted Church officials who discouraged them from reporting priests’ crimes to police. Bishops assured victims they would keep accused priests away from children but they rarely did. Those victims who later turned to attorneys when they realized they have been ignored by the Church hoped that the legal system would give them both justice and some sort of relief from the aftereffects of incidents of rape and molestation. Anderson could only promise that he would try to hold abusers and their enablers accountable in court. Other sorts of recovery—psychological, spiritual, or social—would depend mainly on their own inner resources.

  9. “WHAT DID THE PRIEST DO TO YOU, GREG?”

  When he got his first settlement payment, Greg Lyman bought a Chevy Camaro IROC-Z, spent thousands of dollars entertaining himself and friends, and gave away thousands more. By November 1988 the car was the only thing left, and the next annuity check wasn’t due for months.

  Broke and disconnected as ever, Lyman drove to a for-profit plasma bank to make a donation and get some cash. Inside the clinic, he checked in with the receptionist, who handed him some paperwork. He took a seat in the waiting area, clipboard in hand, and began to write his answers to the questions on the form. A television suspended from the ceiling blared the theme music for a program. Lyman ignored the music and the barking of the host and concentrated on the form. Then something made him look up at the screen. There he saw himself, seated on the set of a TV talk show. The host, Geraldo Rivera, was asking, “What did the priest do to you, Greg?”

  Around the age of 12 or so, he and I went to a YMCA. And I was an altar boy at the time. And the first time I was ever touched, he began stroking my penis in a sauna, I believe it was, at the YMCA.

  Rivera was among the first national television talk show hosts to devote an entire program to the scandal of sex crimes in the Catholic Church. In fact, he aired two hour-long programs that brought together victims such as Lyman with Jeff Anderson, the journalist Jason Berry, and Thomas Doyle, who was not in the studio but appeared in a video report introducing the subject. These programs, plus one presented by the talk show host Phil Donahue, would prompt viewers across the country to report to the Church, police, and private attorneys that they too had been raped or molested by priests. They also marked the true beginning of the national broadcast media’s role in a scandal that would become much bigger than even an insider like Doyle could predict.

  Historic as it may have been, Greg Lyman’s glimpse of himself on the TV screen only made him feel self-conscious and a little afraid. He glanced around the room to see if anyone else waiting to give plasma had noticed he was the “victim” on the TV set. To his relief, the others in the room didn’t seem to make the connection. He got up quickly, put the clipboard on the seat, grabbed his jacket, and left.

  The plasma donors who remained in the waiting room saw Geraldo Rivera’s blunt-edge interview method focused on a young man who was presented as a representative of all the boys ever abused by priests. It was not the role anyone would knowingly choose for himself and Greg Lyman struggled to maintain his dignity. At one point he said, defensively, “There was no anal penetration.” At another moment, his face flushed red as a man in the audience said, “You should have known that something was wrong.”

  Rivera, who was standing in the audience, turned toward the stage and the panel of interview subjects. “Greg, you take a shot at it,” he said. “I know it’s a tough question but obviously the audience is asking it.”

  “I was naive,” answered Lyman. “My mom and dad, you know, sex was a bad word. I was never taught. And I trusted the priest … I wish I would have had some education, some, ‘this is right and this is wrong.’”

  “Help him out, Jeff,” said Rivera, looking directly at Anderson.

  “The power of the priest to a Catholic family, to a twelve-year-old boy, is an amount that’s incredible, and what he says goes,” said Anderson. “He didn’t know how to get out of it. he didn’t have the strength, the ability, or the experience to get out of it and that’s why it’s called rape, and that’s why it’s criminal.”

  Viewers who watched the entire episode of the program, which was called simply Geraldo, would hear Anderson, Berry, and Doyle struggle to describe the breadth of the crisis. Berry, who suggested the title Rivera attached to the show—“The Church’s Sexual Watergate”—noted dozens of cases he had uncovered and many millions of dollars paid in settlements. Doyle, whose career ambitions had been dashed by his efforts to push the Church toward reforms, stressed the hypocrisy of the hierarchy. “It’s difficult to preach the sanctity of marriage and family,” he noted, “when, at the same time, the appearance might be given of condoning highly illicit activity within our own ranks.” Anderson’s role allowed him to pose as a crusader and describe the pattern of
behavior—secret settlements and quiet transfers of problem priests—that left the Church vulnerable to legal claims.

  At the New York studio where the program had been taped, Lyman, Anderson, and Berry attended a brief post-performance gathering where the host thanked all the guests. Berry took the opportunity to chat with Anderson, who had already impressed him as a bulldog litigator. The two men were becoming friends, of a sort, and they admired each other as truth-seekers. Of course pure idealism does not reside in any human being, Berry thought. In Anderson’s case, principle was surely blended with a desire for wealth, fame, and the sheer pleasure that comes with victory.

  In the end, the exact measure of all the drives that motivated Anderson as he tried to hold Church leaders accountable wouldn’t matter as much as the result. Berry could reach a similar conclusion about himself. After all, he had accepted Rivera’s offer to appear because he wanted to alert the public to an important issue, and because the publicity might help him persuade a publisher to give him a contract for a book he had begun to write. The show’s host was also propelled by varying motivations. Geraldo Rivera would claim that his program served a greater good by keeping the public informed, but as any regular viewer would attest, the program was also a showcase for sensational topics and the host’s pugnacious techniques.

  Rivera sometimes paid a price for his aggressive style. Jason Berry got a closer view of this dynamic when he ran into a fellow Louisianan, Michael Palasch, on his journey home. The two men had actually met a day earlier when they shared a limousine ride from the airport to the hotel where the Geraldo show put up their out-of-town guests. Director of a racist group called Skinheads of National Resistance, Palasch complained to Berry that the program taping he was supposed to attend was postponed when members of the radical Jewish Defense League threatened violence if Rivera proceeded with planned interviews of neo-Nazi leaders. According to Berry, Palasch doubted whether the taping would be rescheduled. In response Berry reassured him with both sympathy and irony, “Geraldo’s a man of his word.”