MD05 - The Confession

by Sheldon Siegel

  Shanahan is a third generation USF alum whose father was a member of the Board of Supervisors and whose uncle was a judge. He epitomizes the fading line of lawyers who built their practices by trading on family contacts, political connections and shameless cronyism. Seeking to curry support from the political establishment, the then-reigning archbishop sent a few personal injury cases over to young Johnny Shanahan’s newly-minted firm forty years ago. Now in his seventies, the world-class senior squash player and former Marine sergeant has taken on the persona of a silver-haired sage whose practiced eloquence is ideally suited for his role as archdiocese spokesman. It brings prestige and eight figures in fees annually to his once-fledgling firm, which now employs three hundred lawyers. Genteel John’s refined demeanor and aristocratic air belie the fact that he’s a street fighter who approaches every battle as if it will be his last. Whether it’s a multi-million dollar trial or a squash game, he hates to lose.

  Shanahan may be the Church’s voice to the public, but Quinn lays down the law. His voice is commanding when he says, “You can go home, Michael. We’ll take it from here.”

  He may as well have added the words, “You’re dismissed.”

  “I need to talk to Father Aguirre,” I say.

  The Voice of God turns more emphatic. “We have it covered.”

  It will serve no useful purpose to initiate a shouting match with the chief legal officer of the archdiocese, but I have an obligation to make sure Ramon is represented by the lawyer he chooses–especially if it’s me. “I really have to see my client,” I say.

  “He isn’t your client.”

  I dislike him intensely and I’m quite sure the feeling is mutual. “He asked me to represent him, and I intend to do so until he tells me otherwise.”

  Quinn is a control freak who isn’t used to having his authority challenged. His tiny eyes narrow when he says, “I’m telling you otherwise, Michael.”

  “You aren’t my client, Francis.”

  He detests being called by his given name. “That isn’t the way things work at the Church,” he says.

  “It’s the way things work in the real world.”

  “We’re representing Father Aguirre.”

  “You’re representing the archdiocese. I’m representing Father Aguirre.”

  He slowly enunciates every syllable when he says, “This is a Church matter.”

  I’m equally dogmatic when I reply, “It’s also a personal matter.”

  “Let us handle this, Michael. I don’t want you to get in over your head again.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve seen you in action.”

  “You’ve never seen me in court.”

  “I’ve seen you in church. You abandoned your parishioners. I have an obligation to make sure you don’t do the same to Father Aguirre.”

  “That was twenty years ago, Francis. The fact that I decided to leave the priesthood has nothing to do with my capabilities as a lawyer.”

  “Old habits die hard. I realize that Father Aguirre called you, but I was hoping you’d do the honorable thing and remove yourself from consideration.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You mean you won’t do it. In good conscience, I’m not going to recommend your firm.”

  “Look at our track record, Francis. We’ve handled more than our share of high-profile cases. We know what we’re doing and we get excellent results.”

  “I can’t take that chance.”

  “It isn’t your choice.”

  “It is when there are ramifications for the archdiocese.”

  “All the more reason for Father Aguirre to hire someone who is independent.”

  The unflappable Shanahan interjects a modulated tone. “I know you’re trying to help a friend,” he says, “but you have to think about what’s best for Father Aguirre.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “You have to understand that it’s our job to protect our people.”

  “No, it’s your job to protect the archbishop. It’s my job to protect Father Aguirre. He needs a defense lawyer.”

  “We have several in our firm.”

  “Who specialize in defending civil suits against the archdiocese. You don’t have anybody who’s handled a murder case, and you have a conflict of interest.”

  He feigns exasperation. “Are you suggesting we would set up a priest to protect the reputation of the archdiocese?”

  Exactly. “I’m suggesting the conflict should be disclosed to Father Aguirre. If he doesn’t want me to represent him, I’ll go home.”

  The omnipresent Quinn responds. “I’ll ask him about it,” he says.

  “I’ll ask him about it.”

  His jowls work furiously. “Are you saying you don’t trust us?”

  Precisely. “He called meand asked me to represent him. I’m not in a position to take instructions from you and I’m not leaving until I talk to him.”

  Chapter 4

  “We’re Only Looking Out for Your Best Interests”

  “The archdiocese must take a proactive role in preventing legal problems.”

  — Father F.X. Quinn. San Francisco Chronicle.

  The only sound in the stuffy interrogation room is the buzzing from the industrial-strength clock. Ramon looks more like a felon than a priest as he’s sitting in one of the two heavy wooden chairs and staring at a Styrofoam cup of water that’s resting on the gray metal table. His hair is disheveled and his denim shirt and cotton pants will be replaced in due course by an orange jumpsuit. Quinn has jammed his ample torso into the other chair and Shanahan is standing by the door with his arms folded. I’m leaning against the graffiti-covered wall. Rosie hasn’t arrived yet and I’m feeling outnumbered.

  Ramon addresses us in a hoarse whisper. “They’ve made a terrible mistake,” he says.

  I try to sound reassuring. “We’ll get you out of here as soon as we can.”

  His eyes fill with hope. “When?”

  “Probably not until morning.”

  Not the answer he wanted to hear.

  Quinn clears his throat and moves to the top of his agenda. “Ramon,” he says, “I was explaining to Michael that we plan to handle your representation.”

  I interject, “You need an experienced defense attorney right away.”

  Quinn says, “We’ll bring in a lawyer from John’s firm if the need arises.”

  I glance around and say, “The need has arisen.” I try to give Ramon some cover by invoking legal misdirection. “A conflict could arise if your interests diverge with those of the archdiocese.”

  Quinn fires back. “This is a Church matter,” he says. “We are trying to find the truth and we would never turn our backs on a priest. Let us choose lawyers that we know and trust.”

  And who will bow down and kiss your ring. His analysis might change if the archdiocese would face financial ruin and a public relations disaster if it didn’t offer up Ramon’s head on a platter. Not to mention the fact that it would be a career-limiting move if the archdiocese is forced into bankruptcy on his watch.

  Quinn adds, “We can always retain separate counsel if an actual conflict arises.”

  It’s a truthful, albeit glib argument. Getting another attorney up to speed on short notice isn’t impossible, but he’d begin the race fifty yards behind the starting line.

  “Look,” he says to Ramon, “I’m not going to tell you what to do.”

  He just did.

  “We’re only looking out for your best interests.”

  In my long and occasionally illustrious legal career, I have observed that whenever a lawyer says he’s looking out for your best interests, it is frequently the case that he isn’t.

  Quinn is still pontificating. “If we make a mistake,” he says, “God will forgive us. If we lie, He won’t.”

  It was inevitable that somebody was going to play the God card sooner or later.

  Ramon can’t summarily dismiss the h
ead legal honcho of the archdiocese without significant repercussions, so he searches for a compromise position. “I appreciate everything you’re doing for me,” he says, “but I would like Mike to be on my team. He’s an excellent lawyer who understands the issues facing priests.”

  He might have added that he knows me and trusts my judgment.

  “There are plenty of good lawyers who never went to the seminary,” Quinn says.

  “All things being equal,” Ramon replies, “I’d prefer one who did.”

  Quinn tries to fob it off on the bureaucrats. “I’ll have to check with our insurance carrier,” he says. “They’re very picky about the lawyers we use. It’s a risk management and cost containment issue.”

  A moment ago, he was only interested in finding the truth, but now it’s a risk management issue. He’s starting to sound like the guys who run the HMOs.

  Ramon turns to me and says, “I’ll find a way to pay you.”

  I assure him that we’re prepared to handle his case pro bono.

  Ramon says to Quinn, “That should eliminate your concerns about cost containment.”

  “I’ll still need to check with our carrier,” he says.

  We’ll never see a penny. I try not to sound too sarcastic when I say, “You’ll let us know.”

  “I will.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Ramon says.

  Quinn responds with a resigned nod, and Shanahan tries to make the best of the situation with a transparently phony attempt at sounding conciliatory. “We will make all of our firm’s resources available to you,” he says.

  He won’t do it for free. His gesture will cost the archdiocese upwards of seven hundred bucks an hour, depending upon which of his colleagues does the work.

  There is nothing to be gained by being ungracious. “I’m glad we’ll be working together,” I tell him. There will be plenty of time to jettison them down the road.

  “I trust you will provide full disclosure of all relevant information?” Shanahan says.

  We’ll see. “Of course.”

  “And input on strategy?”

  I won’t let Quinn and the Shanahan tell me how to run this case. “I’ll need the final call on all strategic decisions,” I tell him.

  Ramon says to Quinn, “I can’t think of any reason why that shouldn’t be acceptable to you, Francis.”

  I can think of a few.

  The response is a grudging, “I suppose.”

  Ramon tries to calm the political waters when he tells Quinn, “I want you and John to participate actively in my representation.”

  Quinn isn’t giving up. “I would be more comfortable if we resolved this matter within the family,” he says. “The archbishop may not look upon this favorably.”

  The archbishop hasn’t been arrested.

  “I’d be happy to talk to him if you think it would help,” Ramon says.

  “So would I,” I interject.

  Quinn derives much of his power by controlling the lines of communication. “That won’t be necessary,” he says.

  Banks knocks on the door a moment later and lets himself in. “Have you decided which of you will be representing Father Aguirre?” he asks.

  “All of us,” Quinn says.

  Banks’s expression makes it clear that it’s all the same to him. “We need to take your client down to booking.”

  Quinn glances at his watch and tells Ramon that he’ll return in a couple of hours. “We have to make a few calls,” he says.

  The archbishop is undoubtedly at the top of his list.

  I accompany Ramon as Banks and Johnson escort him to the Glamour Slammer. As he’s about to be taken inside for fingerprinting, he turns to me and says, “I need to talk to you as soon as I’m done.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll make sure Father Quinn and Mr. Shanahan are with me.”

  For the first time, his voice has the unmistakable sound of abject fear. “No,” he whispers. “I want to talk to you alone.”

  Chapter 5

  “They Always Have an Agenda”

  “I have complete confidence in the leadership of our archdiocese.”

  — Father Ramon Aguirre. San Francisco Chronicle.

  Ramon is uncharacteristically agitated when he returns from booking, where he was fingerprinted, showered with disinfectant and given a perfunctory medical exam. He tugs at his freshly-issued orange jumpsuit and snaps, “You have to get me out of here.”

  I’m glad his emotions are running high. Guilty people tend to polish their stories, but innocent people get mad. I can’t give him the answer that he wants to hear, so I have to revert to a lawyerly cliché. “We’re doing everything we can,” I say.

  His expression suggests he’s thinking, “Yeah, right.”

  The consultation room at the intake center in the Glamour Slammer is hardly elegant, but it’s a significant upgrade from the wild booking hub in the old Hall that’s now used for hardcore prisoners. At two A.M., the tight quarters are deathly silent and smell of cleaning solvent. Quinn and Shanahan will return at any moment and we need to get right to it.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “I just need to be sure there is somebody on my team whose loyalties are unquestioned.”

  “You can count on me. But what about Quinn and Shanahan?”

  “They work for the archbishop. Francis will do anything to avoid conveying bad news and John doesn’t want to jeopardize his firm’s relationship with its biggest client. It’s no great secret that they’ve cut deals to avoid embarrassment to the archdiocese.”

  Which is exactly what I’d been saying before. “But if you have questions about their loyalty, why do you want them to represent you?”

  “Because I have no choice. I can’t afford to piss them off, and it will look terrible if the archdiocese bails on me.”

  He’s right.

  He exhales heavily and says, “I need to get back to work. It’s almost Christmas and the children need me.”

  “You’ll be there.”

  “Not if I get fired.”

  “They can’t fire you if you’re innocent.”

  “They can send me to another parish or put me on leave. Even if I’m ultimately exonerated, my reputation will be ruined if this isn’t resolved in the next couple of weeks.”

  It may be ruined already. I fully understand the problem, but I can’t fix the criminal justice system by Christmas.

  He asks, “What will it take to get the charges dropped at the preliminary hearing?”

  A miracle. “Realistically, we’ll have to prove that Ms. Concepcion committed suicide or we’ll have to find the real murderer.”

  “And if we can’t?”

  There’s no way to sugarcoat it. “We’ll have to get ready for trial.”

  The reality is hitting home and his lips form a tight line across his face. “Working at St. Peter’s was the only job I wanted after I got out of the seminary,” he says. “You can’t let them take it away from me.”

  His fear is genuine. He’s an only child who grew up a few blocks from St. Peter’s and was the first member of his family to break out of poverty when he got a scholarship to USF. He decided to go to the seminary after his parents were killed in an auto accident twenty-five years ago. St. Peter’s is more than a church–it’s his family.

  “What are the chances of bail?” he asks.

  Not good. “Depends on the charge. It’s unlikely if they go with first degree.” I don’t mention the worst-case scenario–if they ask for the death penalty, there will be no bail. “Do you have access to any money?”

  “They don’t hand out stock options in my line of work.”

  “What about the archdiocese?” The willingness–or unwillingness–of the archbishop to post bail will be an early indication of his commitment to Ramon’s cause.

  “I don’t know. I suppose they could mortgage St. Mary’s.”

  Not likely. I tell him I’ve arranged for him to be housed in �
�Ad Seg,” the so-called Administrative Segregation area of the new jail, which is reserved for prisoners who are likely to be harassed or injured. At least he’ll have his own room tonight.