by KT Roberts
“Oh, really? Then why are you looking out the window instead of talking to me?”
“Oh,” she lied, “there’s a fat woman walking down the street wearing a tight chartreuse skirt and orange shoes. A large crowd has gathered around her, but I can’t figure out why.”
“That’s bullshit! What’s going on?” he said firmly. “Did you receive another letter?” He pointed a finger at her. “And don’t you lie to me.” She didn’t respond. “Jess?”
Maybe telling him would make her feel better.
“Jess. Talk to me. Get out whatever is causing this depression.”
“I’m not depressed.”
“Well, something’s wrong. Tell me.” When she didn’t respond, he turned down a side street and stopped the car. “Okay, spill you beans . . . right now.”
Jessie huffed out air. “Okay, okay. I know who’s been harassing me.”
“Good. Who is it?”
“Harwell’s wife.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“She was hiding out in my apartment last night.”
“Holy shit! Why?”
“She was jealous and thought we were having an affair. She just lost it, I guess.”
Zach shook his head in disbelief. “You’re filing charges, aren’t you?”
“No. Of course not!”
He reached for her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay?”
“I will be. So do you think we can just let this go and not discuss it again? I really just want to forget the whole thing ever happened.”
“Absolutely.” He watched her for a few minutes. “I’m so sorry.” He patted her hand, then put the car in gear and continued down the street. They drove in silence until she finally spoke.
“I’m actually feeling pretty good about the evidence we’re collecting against Sawyer,” she said, “and I’m praying Father McKinley will talk to us.”
“That’s wishful thinking. Haven’t you ever heard of the Vow of Silence?”
“Yeah, but that’s all for show, isn’t it?”
“Are you kidding me? When a priest hears a confession, regardless of what he’s told, he can never repeat one word of it. Compare it to the attorney-client privilege.”
“Surely God wouldn’t send him to hell for cooperating with the police by telling what he knows.” She frowned. “Would he?”
“Well, maybe not God, but he could be excommunicated from the church.” Zach pulled into the parking lot at St. Catherine’s and parked the car. A light rain misted the windshield. He looked upward. “I think we’d better make a run for the door. It looks like the sky is about to open up.”
“The Vow of Silence sounds like a silly rule to me.”
“If your attorney told the court something you confessed to him, how would you feel about it?”
“I’d be pretty pissed, that’s how I’d feel.”
“Okay, then, I rest my case. Why expect anything less from a priest? We’re dealing with a court of law versus the laws of the church. It’s the same thing.”
“Okay. Point taken. So why are we going to see Father McKinley?”
“I thought it was worth a try. I just want to confirm Patrick being here and get whatever else we can.”
They ran across the parking lot, the gravel crunching beneath their feet. Inside the church, Zach dipped his finger into the holy water, and blessed himself.
“You know, I’ve always wondered why Catholics do that.” Jessie whispered.
“I’m purifying myself before I walk down the aisle to the altar.” He grinned.
“Does that mean you’re never going to sin again?” she asked in a low voice.
“Only while I’m in here.”
“That’s kind of what I thought.” She grinned and followed close behind, watching him genuflect in front of the altar. This was a side of Zach she’d never seen before. She liked watching the formalities that came so automatic to Catholics when they entered their house of worship.
The smell of musty old wood was suddenly noticeable, and the creaking of the floorboards beneath her feet caused her to tiptoe so she wouldn’t disturb parishioners kneeling in the pews. The combination of candles and incense filled the air. Candles flickered in red votive cups in front of statues in the various alcoves dedicated to patron saints. She inhaled the smell of the incense and felt a surprising calm come over her. She didn’t remember the last time she’d been inside a church. And, although she wasn’t Catholic she’d spent time with her childhood friends while they confessed their sins, never quite understanding why they had to confess them to an actual person. To her, talking to God and confessing sins in the privacy of your own mind seemed the most logical and least embarrassing.
Jessie noticed the confessional booth up against the wall. It had one center door, and a smaller door on each side. She wondered which side Patrick Sawyer had used to confess his sins. Zach made a right turn.
“Is Father McKinley expecting us?”
“Yes. He’s in the Sanctuary,” he pointed.
Suddenly aware they both had guns strapped to their hips in a house of God, Jessie felt awkward, as though she was defying the laws of the church. “Should we be in here with our firearms, Zach?”
“It’s okay, we’re cops, remember? It’s not like we’re planning to use them.”
Father McKinley walked to the door and greeted them. “You must be Detectives Gerard and Kensington,” he said in his deep Irish brogue. Two alter boys and a young priest, who were preparing for Mass, gave an inquisitive glance.
“Yes, Father.” Zach handed the elder man his card. “As I mentioned on the telephone, we’re from the two-one precinct. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
“We can go to my office. Father Gabriel is saying Mass tonight.”
“I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean to take you away from your duties.”
“That’s fine, Detective. He’s a newly ordained priest. He can use the practice.”
Jessie figured Father McKinley to be in his late seventies. His smile and gentle manner gave her a warm comfortable feeling, and she was reminded of her Irish grandmother. She watched the elderly man limp down the hallway and wondered if he was in pain.
“Tell me, Detectives,” the priest said glancing over his shoulder, “Are you Catholic?”
“I am, Father,” Zach said, a prideful expression on his face.
“I’m not, Father,” she said. “But I attended Mass with my friends occasionally during my childhood years.”
“And did you learn anything from it?”
“Yes,” she chuckled. “I guess I did.”
“And what would that be, my dear?”
“To be more patient with my friends who were always in trouble with the nuns.”
“Aye, I’ve seen a few of those in my day.” He stopped and faced Zach. “Did you attend Mass on Sunday?”
“No, Father, I was working.” Zach shifted around uncomfortably while Jessie enjoyed watching him squirm. Unless he had a second job she didn’t know about, he’d just lied to the priest. She chuckled quietly. So much for cleansing his soul before entering the nave; but she wouldn’t give him away.
“Well, as soon as we’re done here,” the priest offered, “you’re welcome to attend the five thirty Mass—then you won’t have to worry about making another excuse to me about why you didn’t attend this week.” The priest grinned, exposing his coffee stained teeth.
Jessie gave Zach a playful pinch on his forearm and watched his ears turn a crimson red.
The smell of roast beef baking in the oven wafted into the office, inciting pangs of hunger. She inhaled the comfort food, enjoying the familiar aroma.
“Have a seat,” he gestured. “Can I get you a soda or something?” he asked.
“No, thanks, Father.”
The priest scanned through his telephone messages as though he was alone.
When he realized they were staring at him, he pushed the pink call-sheets to the side. “O
h, I’m sorry. Okay, you wanted to talk to me. What would you like to talk about—pre-Cana?”
Jessie snorted when she saw the surprised expression on Zach’s face. “Oh, no, Father,” she answered, a giggle escaping in between, “You’ll give this man a coronary at the very use of that word. We’re here on official police business.”
“Too bad. You look like such a loving couple. Okay. What business?”
“We’d like to talk to you about Patrick Sawyer.”
“What about him?” he shook his head disgustedly.
“Father,” Zach cleared his throat, “we have a recording of Sawyer’s confession to you. Can you tell me anything about him?”
The priest swallowed hard. “A recording?” He jerked his head back. “How is something like that even possible?”
“Apparently someone’s pretty clever, Father, but it could just be a mischievous prank.”
“I hope you find out who this so-called clever person is and make sure they never do anything like that again.”
“Someone sent it to the precinct in an unmarked package.”
Father McKinley sat motionless for a moment; a horrified expression crossed his face. “If you are a Catholic, then you know about the Laws of the Church. There is no way I would break my Vow of Silence.”
“Relax, Father, I’m not asking you to tell me anything about the confession. We already have that information. What we’re asking is if you’ll come to the precinct and identify his voice.”
“I’m sorry. But I cannot do that. What transpires between a confessor and his priest is confidential.”
“Can you tell us if Patrick Sawyer is a parishioner?”
“You’ll have to call my secretary on Monday. Her name is Mrs. Vickers. I don’t keep track of that information.” Father McKinley’s voice became impatient. He rose from behind his desk. “I’m sorry, I can’t be of more help. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my dinner is waiting.”
“I know about the Vow of Silence, Father,” Zach said in a rush of words, “but we need your help to put this man behind bars.”
“If you know, Detective, then you can understand why I can’t reveal what I’ve heard. I’m afraid you’ll have to find someone else to help you. I can’t.” He turned on his heels and left them standing in the room surprised by his abrupt exit.
31
November 2008
Zach scanned the crowded hallway with his eyes, waiting for the Milligans to arrive at the courthouse. When he spotted Charles Milligan standing on line at the security check, he waved to let them know he was there.
“We’re a wreck,” Charles spewed in a rush of words when they caught up to Zach. “Why did the judge throw Patrick’s recorded confession out?”
“Because it was recorded without his knowledge. And quite frankly, there’s no way the padre would have confirmed the contact due to his Vow of Silence.” Zach shrugged.
Zach had expected Joyce and Sara Milligan to be hyper, but he hadn’t counted on Charles’ composure slipping. “Hey, we knew it most likely would be ruled out, but don’t worry, there’s no doubt in my mind that Sawyer’s going down. We’ve done our homework, and I don’t see how the jury can come back with anything other than a guilty verdict on any of the charges.” He watched a blaze of emotions cross Charles’ face.
“Okay,” Joyce argued, “but it could happen if his attorney is smarter than the DA. Couldn’t it?”
“Of course, but it’s highly unlikely.” Zach knew giving them false hope wasn’t the best approach for encouragement, but he was confident he was more than ready to meet his father head on.
“What about the fact that Amanda’s body has never been found?” Charles added. “Will the judge throw her murder charge out too?”
“Look, why don’t we let the attorneys do their job. Samantha Richards is sharp, and quite honestly, I feel more confident with her as the prosecuting attorney than anyone else from the DAs office.”
“We need closure,” Joyce insisted, tears brimming on her lashes. “And we need to know Patrick is going to suffer for the rest of his life. You know what I mean, Detective?”
“I certainly do, Mrs. Milligan, and we’ll do whatever we can to help that along.”
“The newspaper said Patrick’s attorney is your father,” Charles said wearily. “Is that true, Detective?”
“Yes sir. Alan Gerard is my father.”
A piercing pain erupted in the pit of his stomach. Being in his father’s presence always made him tense and insecure and wishing like hell he didn’t have to speak to the man. But this time, he had no choice. And this time, he felt certain his father was going to eat those thunderous, painful words he’d launched at him about being a detective. A surge of confidence charged through him until his father passed by with his entourage of attorneys without so much as a nod toward him, temporarily shaking his positive resolve. He inhaled a deep breath of air, determined not to let the man’s presence deter him from his course of action. Charles interrupted his thoughts.
“How will that work then?” Charles asked.
“The same way it does in any other trial.” He shrugged and motioned toward the courtroom door when he noticed the bailiff walking toward them. “Please try to relax.” He placed his hand on the small of Joyce Milligan’s back and guided her toward the double doors. “Let’s go inside and watch Patrick Sawyer squirm.” Zach sucked in a deep calming breath as he made his way down to the end of the row.
Zach watched as his father leafed through papers in a file, preparing for trial—a sight he’d seen many times during his growing years in the replica courtroom set up in their family home. A wave of trepidation skittered through him at the thought of his impending testimony.
“I imagine he’ll be pretty hard on you?” Charles asked, sitting down in the seat next to Zach.
“Yes, sir, but that’s okay. I’m ready.”
Charles exhaled. “Forgive us, Detective, we’ve been stressed for so long, it’s hard to imagine Patrick’s trial is finally about to begin. I’m not sure how I’m going to get through this ordeal, or if I can stand being in the same room with him. I can’t imagine what Amanda saw in the man when they married.” He paused as if deep in thought. “I guess he fooled her too.”
A large mass of people filed into the courtroom, rushing to the few remaining vacant seats. The jury arrived, each member taking his or her assigned seat. Five minutes later, Patrick Sawyer was escorted into the courtroom, dressed in a very expensive suit, a red tie with matching hanky in his breast pocket, giving the appearance of the consummate professional who could do no wrong. Zach watched as Alan introduced his client to the other members of his staff drawing the jury’s attention.
“All rise for the Honorable Jamie Cooper,” the bailiff bellowed. A hush of silence fell over the room like the volume of a radio had been turned down. The judge, better known as The Hawk because of his sharp aquiline nose and hawk-like features, had no difficulty living up to the moniker given to him by distinguishing himself from the more reasonable judges. He was a favorite in the DA’s office because he was known for being fair, yet he was a hard-nosed officer of the court who took control of his courtroom and no one dared to cross him. His reputation preceded him from the many high profile cases he’d heard.
“Docket number 08-N-629-014, in the matter of the State of New York City versus Patrick James Sawyer. The Defendant is charged with Two Counts of Murder, One Count of Money Laundering, Two Counts of Documentation Fraud, and One Count of Threatening Law Enforcement.”
Judge Cooper rapped his gavel, and addressed the District Attorney.
“Miss Richards, you may proceed with your opening statement.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Samantha walked out from behind her desk and crossed the room to the jury box to speak directly to the twelve people who would decide Patrick Sawyer’s fate. Dressed in a brown tailored suit, her pale rust-colored blouse accentuated her skin, casting a warm bronze glow. She was the personification of succ
ess. One juror, a good-looking man with piercing blue eyes, focused his attention on her face, a half smile raising the corner of his mouth. She moved to the other side of the box.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, let me give you the facts of this case.” She stopped in the center to address them. “On August 23, 2007, the defendant, Patrick J. Sawyer,” she said pointing to him, “murdered his wife, Amanda Sawyer . . . the mother of his ten-year old daughter. The People will show you that he killed her because she wouldn’t give him a divorce and custody of their only child. We will prove that he blamed his wife for the six miscarriages she had over the course of their twelve-year marriage. We will also prove that his anger turned him into a raging bull after each miscarriage. So much so, that he beat her simply because of his obsession to keep the promise he’d made to his mother before she died; that being to have a house filled with children.”
The audience gasped, the jurors’ expressions told her she’d driven her point home. Samantha’s confidence soared. Zach turned to see the family’s reaction. Mrs. Milligan and Sara were crying softly, each on opposite sides of Mr. Milligan, whose arms were wrapped around their shoulders. His jaw flickered with anger.
“This man,” Samantha pointed to the defendant, “abused his wife’s body, her mind, and her soul, to get what he wanted. He didn’t marry his wife for love, ladies and gentlemen, he married her to be his baby factory.”
Samantha paced back and forth, all eyes focused on her. Excitement surged through her veins. The sound of her heart echoing in her ears was invigorating, and she loved the high. This is what kept her going and to drive her points even harder. “And, that’s not all of it, ladies and gentlemen. The People will prove Mr. Sawyer killed Lenny Scerbo, an employee in his chop shop because he knew too much. The People will further prove Mr. Sawyer, and his accomplices stole vehicles, changed VIN numbers and sold them from his car dealership lot to unsuspecting customers. Instead of going to the bank for a loan like a normal business person would, he found what he thought was a foolproof way to defraud unsuspecting customers by opening a chop shop to offset his dealership’s financial shortfall. A chop shop, ladies and gentlemen . . . that’s right,” Samantha raised her voice, “a chop shop under the alias of Sonny Alexander. Those poor unsuspecting customers thought they were buying a legitimate car.” She paused to allow her words to sink in.
